1108 ---- ******************************************************************* THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK (#23043) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23043 ******************************************************************* 1509 ---- None 1523 ---- None 16493 ---- [Frontispiece caption:] "He cried out, in a fit of frenzy, 'Damn the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!'" The Man Without A Country by Edward E. Hale Author of "In His Name," "Ten Times One," "How to Live," etc. Boston Little, Brown, and Company Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, By TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the your 1888, BY J. STILMAN SMITH & COMPANY in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. Copyright, 1891, 1897, 1900, 1904, BY EDWARD E. HALE. Copyright, 1898, 1905, BY LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY. _All rights reserved_. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Introduction Love of country is a sentiment so universal that it is only on such rare occasions as called this book into being that there is any need of discussing it or justifying it. There is a perfectly absurd statement by Charles Kingsley, in the preface to one of his books, written fifty years ago, in which he says that, while there can be loyalty to a king or a queen, there cannot be loyalty to one's country. This story of Philip Nolan was written in the darkest period of the Civil War, to show what love of country is. There were persons then who thought that if their advice had been taken there need have been no Civil War. There were persons whose every-day pursuits were greatly deranged by the Civil War. It proved that the lesson was a lesson gladly received. I have had letters from seamen who read it as they were lying in our blockade squadrons off the mouths of Southern harbors. I have had letters from men who read it soon after the Vicksburg campaign. And in other ways I have had many illustrations of its having been of use in what I have a right to call the darkest period of the Republic. To-day we are not in the darkest period of the Republic. This nation never wishes to make war. Our whole policy is a policy of peace, and peace is the protection of the Christian civilization to which we are pledged. It is always desirable to teach young men and young women, and old men and old women, and all sorts of people, to understand what the country is. It is a Being. The LORD, God of nations, has called it into existence, and has placed it here with certain duties in defence of the civilization of the world. It was the intention of this parable, which describes the life of one man who tried to separate himself from his country, to show how terrible was his mistake. It does not need now that a man should curse the United States, as Philip Nolan did, or that he should say he hopes he may never hear her name again, to make it desirable for him to consider the lessons which are involved in the parable of his life. Any man is "without a country who, by his sneers, or by looking backward, or by revealing his country's secrets to her enemy, checks for one hour the movements which lead to peace among the nations of the world, or weakens the arm of the nation in her determination to secure justice between man and man, and in general to secure the larger life of her people." He has not damned the United States in a spoken oath. All the same he is a dastard child. There is a definite, visible Progress in the affairs of this world. Jesus Christ at the end of his life prayed to God that all men might become One, "As thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us." The history of the world for eighteen hundred and seventy years since he spoke has shown the steady fulfilment of the hope expressed in this prayer. Men are nearer unity--they are nearer to being one--than they were then. Thus, at that moment each tribe in unknown America was at war with each other tribe. At this moment there is not one hostile weapon used by one American against another, from Cape Bathurst at the north to the southern point of Patagonia. At that moment Asia, Africa, and Europe were scenes of similar discord. Europe herself knows so little of herself that no man would pretend to say which Longbeards were cutting the throats of other Longbeards, or which Scots were lying in ambush for which Britons, in any year of the first century of our era. Call it the "Philosophy of History," or call it the "Providence of God," it is certain that the unity of the race of man has asserted itself as the Saviour of mankind said it should. In this growing unity of mankind it has come about that the Sultan of Turkey cannot permit the massacre of Armenian Christians without answering for such permission before the world. It has come about that no viceroy, serving a woman, who is the guardian of a boy, can be permitted to starve at his pleasure two hundred thousand of God's children. The world is so closely united--that is to say, unity is so real--that when such a viceroy does undertake to commit such an iniquity, somebody shall hold his hands. The story of Philip Nolan was published in such a crisis that it met the public eye and interest. It met the taste of the patriotic public at the moment. It was copied everywhere without the slightest deference to copyright. It was, by the way, printed much more extensively in England than it was in America. Immediately there began to appear a series of speculations based on what you would have said was an unimportant error of mine. My hero is a purely imaginary character. The critics are right in saying that not only there never was such a man, but there never could have been such a man. But he had to have a name. And the choice of a name in a novel is a matter of essential importance, as it proved to be here. Now I had a hero who was a young man in 1807. He knew nothing at that time but the valley of the Mississippi River. "He had been educated on a plantation where the finest company was a Spanish officer, or a French merchant from Orleans." He must therefore have a name familiar to Western people at that time. Well, I remembered that in the preposterous memoirs of General James Wilkinson's, whenever he had a worse scrape than usual to explain, he would say that the papers were lost when Mr. Nolan was imprisoned or was killed in Texas. This Mr. Nolan, as Wilkinson generally calls him, had been engaged with Wilkinson in some speculations mostly relating to horses. Remembering this, I took the name Nolan for my hero. I made my man the real man's brother. "He had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas." And again:--"he was catching wild horses in Texas with his adventurous cousin." [Note: Young authors may observe that he is called a brother in one place and a cousin in another, because such slips would take place in a real narrative. Proofreaders do not like them, but they give a plausibility to the story.] I had the impression that Wilkinson's partner was named Stephen, and as Philip and Stephen were both evangelists in the Bible, I named my man Philip Nolan, on the supposition that the mother who named one son Stephen would name another Philip. It was not for a year after, that, in looking at Wilkinson's "Memoirs" again, I found to my amazement, not to say my dismay, that Wilkinson's partner was named Philip Nolan. We had, therefore, two Philip Nolans, one a real historical character, who was murdered by the Spaniards on the 21st of March, 1801, at Waco in Texas; the other a purely imaginary character invented by myself, who appears for the first time on the 23d of September, 1807, at a court-martial at Fort Adams. I supposed nobody but myself in New England had ever heard of Philip Nolan. But in the Southwest, in Texas and Louisiana, it was but sixty-two years since the Spaniards murdered him. In truth, it was the death of Nolan, the real Philip Nolan, killed by one Spanish governor while he held the safe-conduct of another, which roused that wave of indignation in the Southwest which ended in the independence of Texas. I think the State of Texas would do well, to-day, if it placed the statue of the real Phil Nolan in the Capitol at Washington by the side of that of Sam Houston. In the midst of the war the story was published in the "Atlantic Monthly," of December, 1863. In the Southwest the "Atlantic" at once found its way into regions where the real Phil Nolan was known. A writer in the "New Orleans Picayune," in a careful historical paper, explained at length that I had been mistaken all the way through, that Philip Nolan never went to sea, but to Texas. I received a letter from a lady in Baltimore who told me that two widowed sisters of his lived in that neighborhood. Unfortunately for me, this letter, written in perfectly good faith, was signed E. F. M. Fachtz. I was receiving many letters on the subject daily. I supposed that my correspondent was concealing her name, and was really "Eager for More Facts." When in reality I had the pleasure of meeting her a year or two afterwards, the two widowed sisters of the real Phil Nolan were both dead. But in 1876 I was fortunate enough, on the kind invitation of Mr. Miner, to visit his family in their beautiful plantation at Terre Bonne. There I saw an old negro who was a boy when Master Phil Nolan left the old plantation on the Mississippi River for the last time. Master Phil Nolan had then married Miss Fanny Lintot, who was, I think, the aunt of my host. He permitted me to copy the miniature of the young adventurer. I have since done my best to repair the error by which I gave Philip Nolan's name to another person, by telling the story of his fate in a book called "Philip Nolan's Friends." For the purpose of that book, I studied the history of Miranda's attempt against Spain, and of John Adams's preparations for a descent of the Mississippi River. The professional historians of the United States are very reticent in their treatment of these themes. At the time when John Adams had a little army at Cincinnati, ready to go down and take New Orleans, there were no Western correspondents to the Eastern Press. Within a year after the publication of the "Man without a Country" in the "Atlantic" more than half a million copies of the story had been printed in America and in England. I had curious accounts from the army and navy, of the interest with which it was read by gentlemen on duty. One of our officers in the State of Mississippi lent the "Atlantic" to a lady in the Miner family. She ran into the parlor, crying out, "Here is a man who knows all about uncle Phil Nolan." An Ohio officer, who entered the city of Jackson, in Mississippi, with Grant, told me that he went at once to the State House. Matters were in a good deal of confusion there, and he picked up from the floor a paper containing the examination of _Philip Nolan_, at Walnut Springs, the old name of Vicksburg. This was before the real Philip's last expedition. The United States authorities, in the execution of the neutrality laws, had called him to account, and had made him show the evidence that he had the permission of the Governor of New Orleans for his expedition. In 1876 I visited Louisiana and Texas, to obtain material for "Philip Nolan's Friends." I obtained there several autographs of the real Phil Nolan,--and the original Spanish record of one of the trials of the survivors of his party,--a trial which resulted in the cruel execution of Ephraim Blackburn, seven years after he was arrested. That whole transaction, wholly ignored by all historians of the United States known to me, is a sad blot on the American administration of the Spanish kings. Their excuse is the confusion of everything in Madrid between 1801 and 1807. The hatred of the Mexican authorities among our frontiersmen of the Southwest is largely due to the dishonor and cruelty of those transactions. EDWARD E. HALE. THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY I [Note 1] suppose that very few casual readers of the "New York Herald" of August 13, 1863, observed, [Note 2] in an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the announcement,-- "NOLAN. Died, on board U. S. Corvette 'Levant,' [Note 3] Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, PHILIP NOLAN." I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission House in Mackinaw, waiting for a Lake Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring to the very stubble all the current literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the "Herald." My memory for names and people is good, and the reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer of the "Levant" who reported it had chosen to make it thus: "Died, May 11, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY." For it was as "The Man without a Country" that poor Philip Nolan had generally been known by the officers who had him in charge during some fifty years, as, indeed, by all the men who sailed under them. I dare say there is many a man who has taken wine with him once a fortnight, in a three years' cruise, who never knew that his name was "Nolan," or whether the poor wretch had any name at all. There can now be no possible harm in telling this poor creature's story. Reason enough there has been till now, ever since Madison's [Note 4] administration went out in 1817, for very strict secrecy, the secrecy of honor itself, among the gentlemen of the navy who have had Nolan in successive charge. And certainly it speaks well for the _esprit de corps_ of the profession, and the personal honor of its members, that to the press this man's story has been wholly unknown,--and, I think, to the country at large also. I have reason to think, from some investigations I made in the Naval Archives when I was attached to the Bureau of Construction, that every official report relating to him was burned when Ross burned the public buildings at Washington. One of the Tuckers, or possibly one of the Watsons, had Nolan in charge at the end of the war; and when, on returning from his cruise, he reported at Washington to one of the Crowninshields,--who was in the Navy Department when he came home,--he found that the Department ignored the whole business. Whether they really knew nothing about it, or whether it was a "_Non mi ricordo_," determined on as a piece of policy, I do not know. But this I do know, that since 1817, and possibly before, no naval officer has mentioned Nolan in his report of a cruise. But, as I say, there is no need for secrecy any longer. And now the poor creature is dead, it seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young Americans of to-day what it is to be A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. PHILIP NOLAN was as fine a young officer as there was in the "Legion of the West," as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr [Note 5] made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, at Fort Massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met, as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow; at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flat-boat, and, in short, fascinated him. For the next year, barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he lost the fun which they found in shooting or rowing while he was working away on these grand letters to his grand friend. They could not understand why Nolan kept by himself while they were playing high-low jack. Poker was not yet invented. But before long the young fellow had his revenge. For this time His Excellency, Honorable Aaron Burr, appeared again under a very different aspect. There were rumors that he had an army behind him and everybody supposed that he had an empire before him. At that time the youngsters all envied him. Burr had not been talking twenty minutes with the commander before he asked him to send for Lieutenant Nolan. Then after a little talk he asked Nolan if he could show him something of the great river and the plans for the new post. He asked Nolan to take him out in his skiff to show him a canebrake or a cotton-wood tree, as he said,--really to seduce him; and by the time the sail was over, Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. What Burr meant to do I know no more than you, dear reader. It is none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catastrophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great treason trial at Richmond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi Valley, which was farther from us than Puget's Sound is to-day, introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage; and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort Adams, got up, for spectacles, a string of court-martials on the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough,--that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march any-whither with any one who would follow him had the order been signed, "By command of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped,--rightly for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty enough, as I say; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that, when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy,-- "Damn the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!" I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, [Note 6] who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness. He, on his part, had grown up in the West of those days, in the midst of "Spanish plot," "Orleans plot," and all the rest. He had been educated on a plantation where the finest company was a Spanish officer or a French merchant from Orleans. His education, such as it was, had been perfected in commercial expeditions to Vera Cruz, and I think he told me his father once hired an Englishman to be a private tutor for a winter on the plantation. He had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas; and, in a word, to him "United States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by "United States" for all the years since he had been in the army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true to "United States." It was "United States" which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States" had picked you out first as one of her own confidential men of honor that "A. Burr" cared for you a straw more than for the flat boat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. He never did hear her name but once again. From that moment, Sept. 23, 1807, till the day he died, May 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. For that half-century and more he was a man without a country. Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. If Nolan had compared George Washington to Benedict Arnold, or had cried, "God save King George," Morgan would not have felt worse. He called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say,-- "Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again." Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added,-- "Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there." The marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court. "Mr. Marshal," continued old Morgan, "see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. The Court is adjourned without day." I have always supposed that Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court to Washington city, and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. Certain it is that the President approved them,--certain, that is, if I may believe the men who say they have seen his signature. Before the "Nautilus" got round from New Orleans to the Northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board, the sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a country. The plan then adopted was substantially the same which was necessarily followed ever after. Perhaps it was suggested by the necessity of sending him by water from Fort Adams and Orleans. The Secretary of the Navy--it must have been the first Crowninshield, though he is a man I do not remember--was requested to put Nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far confined there as to make it certain that he never saw or heard of the country. We had few long cruises then, and the navy was very much out of favor; and as almost all of this story is traditional, as I have explained, I do not know certainly what his first cruise was. But the commander to whom he was intrusted,--perhaps it was Tingey or Shaw, though I think it was one of the younger men,--we are all old enough now,---regulated the etiquette and the precautions of the affair, and according to his scheme they were carried out, I suppose, till Nolan died. When I was second officer of the "Intrepid," some thirty years after, I saw the original paper of instructions. I have been sorry ever since that I did not copy the whole of it. It ran, however, much in this way:-- "WASHINGTON (with a date, which must have been late in 1807). "Sir,--You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the person of Philip Nolan, late a lieutenant in the United States army. "This person on his trial by court-martial expressed, with an oath, the wish that he might 'never hear of the United States again.' "The Court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. "For the present, the execution of the order is intrusted by the President to this Department. "You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. "You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank, if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his Government. "The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unnecessarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. "But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his country or to see any information regarding it; and you will especially caution all the officers under your command to take care, that, in the various indulgences which may be granted, this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be broken. "It is the intention of the Government that he shall never again see the country which he has disowned. Before the end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give effect to this intention. "Respectfully yours, "W. SOUTHARD, for the "Secretary of the Navy" If I had only preserved the whole of this paper, there would be no break in the beginning of my sketch of this story. For Captain Shaw, if it were he, handed it to his successor in the charge, and he to his, and I suppose the commander of the "Levant" has it to-day as his authority for keeping this man in this mild custody. The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man without a country" was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war,--cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system. He was not permitted to talk with the men, unless an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites: I was one. Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his own state-room,--he always had a state-room--which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite "Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him "Plain-Buttons," because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army-uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army-button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned. I remember, soon after I joined the navy, I was on shore with some of the older officers from our ship and from the "Brandywine," which we had met at Alexandria. We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on donkeys then), some of the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the system which was adopted from the first about his books and other reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back of what was cut out might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which afterwards I had enough and more than enough to do with. I remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English Admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean, Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an officer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a windfall. Among them, as the Devil would order, was the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," [Note 7] which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the "Tempest" from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things so often now; but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began, without a thought of what was coming,-- "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,"-- It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically,-- "This is my own, my native land!" Then they all saw that something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on,-- "Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?-- If such there breathe, go, mark him well,"-- By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on,-- "For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self,"-- and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room, "And by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him." That story shows about the time when Nolan's braggadocio must have broken down. At first, they said, he took a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce, affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that; but Phillips said that after he came out of his state-room he never was the same man again. He never read aloud again, unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again. He was always shy afterwards, when I knew him,--very seldom spoke, unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends. He lighted up occasionally,--I remember late in his life hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been suggested to him by one of Fléchier's sermons,--but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man. When Captain Shaw was coming home,--if, as I say, it was Shaw,--rather to the surprise of everybody they made one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly a week. The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk, and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home. But after several days the "Warren" came to the same rendezvous; they exchanged signals; she sent to Phillips and these homeward-bound men letters and papers, and told them she was outward-bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his second cruise. He looked very blank when he was told to get ready to join her. He had known enough of the signs of the sky to know that till that moment he was going "home." But this was a distinct evidence of something he had not thought of, perhaps,--that there was no going home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again. It may have been on that second cruise,--it was once when he was up the Mediterranean,--that Mrs. Graff, the celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him. They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and the officers were very intimate in the English fleet, and there had been great festivities, and our men thought they must give a great ball on board the ship. How they ever did it on board the "Warren" I am sure I do not know. Perhaps it was not the "Warren," or perhaps ladies did not take up so much room as they do now. They wanted to use Nolan's state-room for something, and they hated to do it without asking him to the ball; so the captain said they might ask him, if they would be responsible that he did not talk with the wrong people, "who would give him intelligence." So the dance went on, the finest party that had ever been known, I dare say; for I never heard of a man-of-war ball that was not. For ladies, they had the family of the American consul, one or two travellers who had adventured so far, and a nice bevy of English girls and matrons, perhaps Lady Hamilton herself. Well, different officers relieved each other in standing and talking with Nolan in a friendly way, so as to be sure that nobody else spoke to him. The dancing went on with spirit, and after a while even the fellows who took this honorary guard of Nolan ceased to fear any _contretemps_. Only when some English lady--Lady Hamilton, as I said, perhaps--called for a set of "American dances," an odd thing happened. Everybody then danced contra-dances. The black band, nothing loath, conferred as to what "American dances" were, and started off with "Virginia Reel," which they followed with "Money-Musk," which, in its turn in those days, should have been followed by "The Old Thirteen." But just as Dick, the leader, tapped for his fiddles to begin, and bent forward, about to say, in true negro state, "'The Old Thirteen,' gentlemen and ladies!" as he had said "'Virginny Reel,' if you please!" and "'Money-Musk,' if you please!" the captain's boy tapped him on the shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and they all fell to,--the officers teaching the English girls the figure, but not telling them why it had no name. But that is not the story I started to tell. As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got at ease, as I said,--so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say,-- "I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge. Shall I have the honor of dancing?" He did it so quickly, that Fellows, who was with him, could not hinder him. She laughed and said,-- "I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I will dance all the same," just nodded to Fellows, as if to say he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place where the dance was forming. Nolan thought he had got his chance. He had known her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and this was a Godsend. You could not talk in contra-dances, as you do in cotillions, or even in the pauses of waltzing; but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as for eyes and blushes. He began with her travels, and Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when they had worked down, and had that long talking time at the bottom of the set, he said boldly,--a little pale, she said, as she told me the story years after,-- "And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?" And that splendid creature looked through him. Jove! how she must have looked through him! "Home!! Mr. Nolan!!! I thought you were the man who never wanted to hear of home again!"--and she walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor Nolan alone, as he always was.--He did not dance again. I cannot give any history of him in order; nobody can now; and, indeed, I am not trying to. These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told about this man for forty years. The lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows used to say he was the "Iron Mask;" and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author of "Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons was not very strong in the historical line. A happier story than either of these I have told is of the war. That came along soon after. I have heard this affair told in three or four ways,--and, indeed, it may have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I cannot tell. However, in one, at least, of the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, [Note 8] it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon's people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt-sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority,--who should go to the cock-pit with the wounded men, who should stay with him,--perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,--sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,--showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot,--making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders,--and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said,-- "I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir." And this is the part of the story where all the legends agree; the commodore said,-- "I see you do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir." And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said,-- "Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here." And when Nolan came, he said,-- "Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the despatches." And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony, and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that infernal day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the commodore's. The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was always said he asked that he might be pardoned. He wrote a special letter to the Secretary of War. But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington, and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was nobody to stop it without any new orders from home. I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took possession of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you know, but old Porter, his father, Essex Porter,--that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex. [Note 9] As an artillery officer, who had seen service in the West, Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would have settled all the question about his punishment. We should have kept the islands, and at this moment we should have one station in the Pacific Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied. But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that away. All that was near fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time; and that he used to read just five hours a day. "Then," he said, "I keep up my notebooks, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called "Odds and Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will have Nolan's scrapbooks. Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything about the habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether they are _Lepidoptera_ or _Steptopotera_; but as for telling how you can get rid of them, or how they get away from you when you strike them, --why Linnaeus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours made Nolan's regular daily "occupation." The rest of the time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a great deal. He always kept up his exercise; and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to, on any other occasion, he was always ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully. My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the English war, on my first voyage after I was appointed a midshipman. It was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was a sort of lay chaplain,--a chaplain with a blue coat. I never asked about him. Everything in the ship was strange to me. I knew it was green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a "Plain-Buttons" on every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week, and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to be said about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were a great many things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first came to understand anything about "the man without a country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message came, and we all wished we could interpret, when the captain asked who spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to interpret, if the captain wished, as he understood the language. The captain thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go. When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were not a great many of the negroes; but by way of making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had their handcuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake, was putting them upon the rascals of the schooner's crew. The negroes were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarming all round the dirty deck, with a central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in every dialect, and patois of a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the Parisian of Beledeljereed. [Note 10] As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and said:-- "For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand something? The men gave them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe him. And then I talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they understood that as well as they understood the English." Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already, had worked for the Portuguese on the coast at Fernando Po. "Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get rope enough." Nolan "put that into Spanish,"--that is, he explained it in such Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand them. Then there was such a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a general rush made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous worship of Vaughan, as the _deus ex machina_ of the occasion. "Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said, "_Ah, non Palmas_," and began to propose infinite other expedients in most voluble language. Vaughan was rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men down, and said:-- "He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these devils caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says," choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon." Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through this interpretation: I, who did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting with fervent heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words, he said:-- "Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!" And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs. But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: "Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word, or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your country, pray God in His mercy to take you that instant home to His own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "--and for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, "never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!" I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out that I would, by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say: "O, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!" I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never abused, for I never told this story till now, which afterward made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at night, to walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so directly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in St. Thomas harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and later in life, when I thought I had some influence in Washington, I moved heaven and earth to have him discharged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison. They pretended there was no such man, and never was such a man. They will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to know nothing! There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But this I believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, _ben trovato_, involving a tremendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr,--asking him how he liked to be "without a country." But it is clear from Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened; and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least mystery at bottom. Philip Nolan, poor fellow, repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. He never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but never from his fault. Lieutenant Truxton told me that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion among the officers, whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps and cut Texas out of it,--from the map of the world and the map of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the atlas was bought for him. But it was voted, rightly enough, that to do this would be virtually to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think Old Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a short time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South American station. We were lying in the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on shore and had just joined again, were entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-wild horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story of a tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own when he was catching wild horses in Texas with his adventurous cousin, at a time when he mast have been quite a boy. He told the story with a good deal of spirit,--so much so, that the silence which often follows a good story hung over the table for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked perfectly unconsciously.-- "Pray, what has become of Texas? After the Mexicans got their independence, I thought that province of Texas would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the Italy of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty years." There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason he had never heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so that, while he read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and, till quite lately, of California, --this virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far, and, I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each other and tried not to laugh. Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's chandelier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say,-- "Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome?" After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice a year, for in that voyage we became even confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in those fifteen years he aged very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self-appointed punishment,--rather less social, perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious, apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom fairly seemed to worship him. And now it seems the dear old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and a country. Since writing this, and while considering whether or no I would print it, as a warning to the young Nolans and Vallandighams and Tatnalls of to-day of what it is to throw away a country, I have received from Danforth, who is on board the "Levant," a letter which gives an account of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about telling this story. The reader will understand Danforth's letter, or the beginning of it, if he will remember that after ten years of Nolan's exile every one who had him in charge was in a very delicate position. The government had failed to renew the order of 1807 regarding him. What was a man to do? Should he let him go? What, then, if he were called to account by the Department for violating the order of 1807? Should he keep him? What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had had him in charge? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I have reason to think that other officers did the same thing. But the Secretary always said, as they so often do at Washington, that there were no special orders to give, and that we must act on our own judgment. That means, "If you succeed, you will be sustained; if you fail, you will be disavowed." Well, as Danforth says, all that is over now, though I do not know but I expose myself to a criminal prosecution on the evidence of the very revelation I am making. Here is the letter:-- LEVANT, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. "DEAR FRED:--I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near. The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not left his state-room,--a thing I never remember before. He had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there,--the first time the doctor had been in the state-room,--and he said he should like to see me. Oh, dear! do you remember the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room in the old 'Intrepid' days? Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, 'Here, you see, I have a country!' And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large letters: 'Indiana Territory,' 'Mississippi Territory,' and 'Louisiana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers learned such things: but the old fellow had patched in Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing. "'O Captain,' he said, 'I know I am dying. I cannot get home. Surely you will tell me something now?--Stop! stop! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America,--God bless her!--a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are. There has never been one taken away: I thank God for that. I know by that that there has never been any successful Burr, O Danforth, Danforth,' he sighed out, 'how like a wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a life as mine! But tell me,--tell me something,--tell me everything, Danforth, before I die!' "Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster that I had not told him everything before. Danger or no danger, delicacy or no delicacy, who was I, that I should have been acting the tyrant all this time over this dear, sainted old man, who had years ago expiated, in his whole manhood's life, the madness of a boys treason? 'Mr. Nolan,' said I, 'I will tell you everything you ask about. Only, where shall I begin?' "Oh, the blessed smile that crept over his white face! and he pressed my hand and said, 'God bless you! 'Tell me their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. 'The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi,--that was where Fort Adams is,--they make twenty. But where are your other fourteen? You have not cut up any of the old ones, I hope?' "Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how his cousin died there; he had marked a gold cross near where he supposed his grave was; and he had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California and Oregon;--that, he said, he had suspected partly, because he had never been permitted to land on that shore, though the ships were there so much. 'And the men,' said he, laughing, 'brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then he went back --heavens, how far!--to ask about the Chesapeake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to the Leopard, [Note 11] and whether Burr ever tried again,--and he ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was over, and he said, 'God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old war,--told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took the Java,--asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then he settled down more quietly, and very happily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. "How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told him all I could think of about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you think, he asked who was in command of the 'Legion of the West.' I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head-quarters at Vicksburg. Then, 'Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams; and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now. 'It must be at old Vick's plantation, at Walnut Hills,' said he: 'well, that is a change!' "I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him,--of emigration, and the means of it,--of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs,--of inventions, and books, and literature, --of the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School,--but with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six years! "I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President now; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had worked up from the ranks. 'Good for him!' cried Nolan; 'I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian, and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Washington: Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal rebellion! "And he drank it in and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right place,--and so it did. There was his double red mark down the page; and I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me, 'For ourselves and our country, O gracious God, we thank These, that, notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy marvellous kindness,'--and so to the end of that thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the words more familiar to me: 'Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the United States, and all others in authority,'--and the rest of the Episcopal collect. 'Danforth,' said he, 'I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me; and he said, 'Look in my Bible, Captain, when I am gone.' And I went away. "But I had no thought it was the end: I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy, and I wanted him to be alone. "But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of the Cincinnati. "We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place where he had marked the text.-- "'They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for He hath prepared for them a city.' "On this slip of paper he had written: "'Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory [Note 12] at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it: "'_In Memory of_ "'PHILIP NOLAN, "'_Lieutenant in the Army of the United States_. "'He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.'" Notes [Note 1:] - Frederic Ingham, the "I" of the narrative, is supposed to be a retired officer of the United States Navy. [Note 2:] - "_Few readers . . . observed_." In truth, no one observed it, because there was no such announcement there. The author has, however, met more than one person who assured him that they had seen this notice. So fallible is the human memory! [Note 3:] - _The "Levant_." The " Levant " was a corvette in the American navy, which sailed on her last voyage, with despatches for an American officer in Central America, from the port of Honolulu in 1860. She has never been heard of since, but one of her spars drifted ashore on one of the Hawaiian islands. I took her name intentionally, knowing that she was lost. As it happened, when this story was published, only two American editors recollected that the "Levant" no longer existed. We learn from the last despatch of Captain Hunt that he intended to take a northern course heading eastward toward the coast of California rather than southward toward the Equator. At the instance of Mr. James D. Hague, who was on board the "Levant" to bid Captain Hunt good bye on the day when she sailed from Hilo, a search has been made in the summer of 1904 for any reef or islands in that undiscovered region upon which she may have been wrecked. But no satisfactory results have been obtained. [Note 4:] - _Madison_. James Madison was President from March 4, 1809, to March 4, 1817. Personally he did not wish to make war with England, but the leaders of the younger men of the Democratic party--Mr. Clay, Mr. Calhoun, and others--pressed him against his will to declare war in 1812. The war was ended by the Treaty of Peace at Ghent in the year 1814. It is generally called "The Short War." There were many reasons for the war. The most exasperating was the impressment of American seamen to serve in the English navy. In the American State Department there were records of 6,257 such men, whose friends had protested to the American government. It is believed that more than twenty thousand Americans were held, at one time or another, in such service. For those who need to study this subject, I recommend Spears's "History of our Navy," in four volumes. It is dedicated "to those who would seek Peace and Pursue it." [Note 5:] - Aaron Burr had been an officer in the American Revolution. He was Vice-President from 1801 to 1805, in the first term of Jefferson's administration. In July, 1804, in a duel, Burr killed Alexander Hamilton, a celebrated leader of the Federal party. From this duel may be dated the indignation which followed him through the next years of his life. In 1805, after his Vice-Presidency, he made a voyage down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, to study the new acquisition of Louisiana. That name was then given to all the country west of the Mississippi as far as the Rocky Mountains. The next year he organized a military expedition, probably with the plan, vaguely conceived, of taking Texas from Spain. He was, however, betrayed and arrested by General Wilkinson,--then in command of the United States army,--with whom Burr had had intimate relations. He was tried for treason at Richmond but acquitted. [Note 6:] - Colonel Morgan is a fictitious character, like all the others in this book, except Aaron Burr. [Note 7:] - The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" is one of the best poems of Walter Scott. It was first published in 1805. The whole passage referred to in the text is this:-- Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well! For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood; Land of the mountain and the flood. [Note 8:] - "_Frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized_." Several great sea fights in this short war gave to the Navy of the United States its reputation. Indeed, they charged the navies of all the world. The first of these great battles is the fight of the "Constitution" and "Guerrière," August 19, 1812. [Note 9:] - The frigate "Essex," under Porter, took the Marquesas Islands, in the Pacific, in 1813. Captain Porter was father of the more celebrated Admiral Porter, who commanded the United States naval forces in the Gulf of Mexico in 1863, when this story was written. [Note 10:] - _Beledeljereed_. An Arab name. Beled el jerid means "The Land of Dates." As a name it has disappeared from the books of geography. But one hundred years ago it was given to the southern part of the Algeria of to-day, and somewhat vaguely to other parts of the ancient Numidia. It will be found spelled Biledelgerid. To use this word now is somewhat like speaking of the Liliput of Gulliver. [Note 11:] Page 40.-The English cruisers on the American coast, in the great war between England and Napoleon, claimed the right to search American merchantmen and men of war, to find, if they could, deserters from the English navy. This was their way of showing their contempt for the United States. In 1807 the "Chesapeake," a frigate of the United States, was met by the "Leopard," an English frigate. She was not prepared for fighting, and Barron, her commander, struck his flag. This is the unfortunate vessel which surrendered to the "Shannon" on June 3, 1813. [Note 12:] - No one has erected this monument. Its proper place would be on the ruins of Fort Adams. That fort has been much worn away by the Mississippi River. 1773 ---- ******************************************************************* THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK (#23043) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23043 ******************************************************************* 2244 ---- None 1121 ---- <> 1601 AS YOU LIKE IT by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE. DUKE, living in exile FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions AMIENS, lord attending on the banished Duke JAQUES, " " " " " " LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick OLIVER, son of Sir Rowland de Boys JAQUES, " " " " " " ORLANDO, " " " " " " ADAM, servant to Oliver DENNIS, " " " TOUCHSTONE, the court jester SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar CORIN, shepherd SILVIUS, " WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey A person representing HYMEN ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke CELIA, daughter to Frederick PHEBE, a shepherdes AUDREY, a country wench Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants <> SCENE: OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court; and the Forest of Arden ACT I. SCENE I. Orchard of OLIVER'S house Enter ORLANDO and ADAM ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it. Enter OLIVER ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother. ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. [ADAM retires] OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here? ORLANDO. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing. OLIVER. What mar you then, sir? ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile. ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury? OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir? ORLANDO. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard. OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir? ORLANDO. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence. OLIVER. What, boy! [Strikes him] ORLANDO. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. OLIVER. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? ORLANDO. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself. ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's remembrance, be at accord. OLIVER. Let me go, I say. ORLANDO. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes. OLIVER. And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will. I pray you leave me. ORLANDO. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good. OLIVER. Get you with him, you old dog. ADAM. Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke such a word. Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis! Enter DENNIS DENNIS. Calls your worship? OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me? DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you. OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is. Enter CHARLES CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship. OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new court? CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander. OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished with her father? CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. OLIVER. Where will the old Duke live? CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke? CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is thing of his own search and altogether against my will. OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship! Exit OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go about. Exit <> SCENE II. A lawn before the DUKE'S palace Enter ROSALIND and CELIA CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd as mine is to thee. ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours. CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see; what think you of falling in love? CELIA. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. ROSALIND. What shall be our sport, then? CELIA. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. Enter TOUCHSTONE CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument? ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit. CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit! Whither wander you? TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA. Were you made the messenger? TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you. ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool? TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught. Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. CELIA. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge? ROSALIND. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you swear by that that not, you are not forsworn; no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or that mustard. CELIA. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st? TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days. TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly. CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. Enter LE BEAU ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news. CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-cramm'd. CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news? LE BEAU. Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport. CELIA. Sport! of what colour? LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you? ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will. TOUCHSTONE. Or as the Destinies decrees. CELIA. Well said; that was laid on with a trowel. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank- ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell. LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. CELIA. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried. LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons- CELIA. I could match this beginning with an old tale. LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence. ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by these presents'- LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping. ROSALIND. Alas! TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost? LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of. TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. CELIA. Or I, I promise thee. ROSALIND. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? LE BEAU. You must, if you stay here; for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. CELIA. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay and see it. Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. ROSALIND. Is yonder the man? LE BEAU. Even he, madam. CELIA. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully. FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to see the wrestling? ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave. FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him. CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by. [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart] LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you. ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty. ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler? ORLANDO. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. CELIA. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt. ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward. ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. CELIA. And mine to eke out hers. ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you! CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you! CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth? ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working. FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall. CHARLES. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first. ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd me before; but come your ways. ROSALIND. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man! CELIA. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [They wrestle] ROSALIND. O excellent young man! CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [CHARLES is thrown. Shout] FREDERICK. No more, no more. ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd. FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles? LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord. FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man? ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. FREDERICK. I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteem'd thy father honourable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed, Hadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth; I would thou hadst told me of another father. Exeunt DUKE, train, and LE BEAU CELIA. Were I my father, coz, would I do this? ORLANDO. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, His youngest son- and would not change that calling To be adopted heir to Frederick. ROSALIND. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father's mind; Had I before known this young man his son, I should have given him tears unto entreaties Ere he should thus have ventur'd. CELIA. Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him, and encourage him; My father's rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd; If you do keep your promises in love But justly as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy. ROSALIND. Gentleman, [Giving him a chain from her neck] Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz? CELIA. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. ORLANDO. Can I not say 'I thank you'? My better parts Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. ROSALIND. He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes; I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir? Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies. CELIA. Will you go, coz? ROSALIND. Have with you. Fare you well. Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA ORLANDO. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. Re-enter LE BEAU LE BEAU. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd High commendation, true applause, and love, Yet such is now the Duke's condition That he misconstrues all that you have done. The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed, More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. ORLANDO. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this: Which of the two was daughter of the Duke That here was at the wrestling? LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners; But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter; The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke, And here detain'd by her usurping uncle, To keep his daughter company; whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this Duke Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father's sake; And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well. Exit LE BEAU Thus must I from the smoke into the smother; From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother. But heavenly Rosalind! Exit SCENE III. The DUKE's palace Enter CELIA and ROSALIND CELIA. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word? ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog. CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons. ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any. CELIA. But is all this for your father? ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full of briers is this working-day world! CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart. CELIA. Hem them away. ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and have him. CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. ROSALIND. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son? ROSALIND. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly. CELIA. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando. ROSALIND. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. CELIA. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke. CELIA. With his eyes full of anger. FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court. ROSALIND. Me, uncle? FREDERICK. You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou beest found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it. ROSALIND. I do beseech your Grace, Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. If with myself I hold intelligence, Or have acquaintance with mine own desires; If that I do not dream, or be not frantic- As I do trust I am not- then, dear uncle, Never so much as in a thought unborn Did I offend your Highness. FREDERICK. Thus do all traitors; If their purgation did consist in words, They are as innocent as grace itself. Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. FREDERICK. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough. ROSALIND. SO was I when your Highness took his dukedom; So was I when your Highness banish'd him. Treason is not inherited, my lord; Or, if we did derive it from our friends, What's that to me? My father was no traitor. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much To think my poverty is treacherous. CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. FREDERICK. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake, Else had she with her father rang'd along. CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay; It was your pleasure, and your own remorse; I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why so am I: we still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable. FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very silence and her patience, Speak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name; And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd. CELIA. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege; I cannot live out of her company. FREDERICK. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself. If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, And in the greatness of my word, you die. Exeunt DUKE and LORDS CELIA. O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am. ROSALIND. I have more cause. CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin. Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke Hath banish'd me, his daughter? ROSALIND. That he hath not. CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. Shall we be sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl? No; let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us; And do not seek to take your charge upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee. ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go? CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden. ROSALIND. Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. CELIA. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face; The like do you; so shall we pass along, And never stir assailants. ROSALIND. Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, A boar spear in my hand; and- in my heart Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will- We'll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances. CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? ROSALIND. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be call'd? CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena. ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel? CELIA. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away, And get our jewels and our wealth together; Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content To liberty, and not to banishment. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 'This is no flattery; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.' Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it. AMIENS. Happy is your Grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style. DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor'd. FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood! To the which place a poor sequest'red stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle? FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream: 'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friends: ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques 'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?' Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation? SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer. DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place; I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he's full of matter. FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight. Exeunt SCENE II. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be; some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this. FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, Saw her abed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o'erheard Your daughter and her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; And she believes, wherever they are gone, That youth is surely in their company. FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither. If he be absent, bring his brother to me; I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly; And let not search and inquisition quail To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S house Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting ORLANDO. Who's there? ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master! O my sweet master! O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it! ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter? ADAM. O unhappy youth! Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives. Your brother- no, no brother; yet the son- Yet not the son; I will not call him son Of him I was about to call his father- Hath heard your praises; and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie, And you within it. If he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off; I overheard him and his practices. This is no place; this house is but a butchery; Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go? ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here. ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food, Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do; Yet this I will not do, do how I can. I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, When service should in my old limbs lie lame, And unregarded age in corners thrown. Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; All this I give you. Let me be your servant; Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you; I'll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities. ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having; it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways, we'll go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We'll light upon some settled low content. ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. From seventeen years till now almost four-score Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week; Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master's debtor. Exeunt SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias TOUCHSTONE ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits! TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena. CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further. TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse. ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden. TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. Enter CORIN and SILVIUS ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a young man and an old in solemn talk. CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still. SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her! CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now. SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow. But if thy love were ever like to mine, As sure I think did never man love so, How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily! If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov'd; Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not lov'd; Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not lov'd. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! Exit Silvius ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own. TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it. ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion. TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me. CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food; I faint almost to death. TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown! ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman. CORIN. Who calls? TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir. CORIN. Else are they very wretched. ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd, And faints for succour. CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her, And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, My fortunes were more able to relieve her; But I am shepherd to another man, And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. My master is of churlish disposition, And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on; but what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be. ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying any thing. ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place, And willingly could waste my time in it. CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold. Go with me; if you like upon report The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, I will your very faithful feeder be, And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the forest Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS SONG AMIENS. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more. AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos? AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing? AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself. JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues. AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you. JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. SONG [All together here] Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' th' sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleas'd with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention. AMIENS. And I'll sing it. JAQUES. Thus it goes: If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; Here shall he see Gross fools as he, An if he will come to me. AMIENS. What's that 'ducdame'? JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt. AMIENS. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd. Exeunt severally SCENE VI. The forest Enter ORLANDO and ADAM ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the arm's end. I will here be with the presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! Exeunt SCENE VII. The forest A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man. FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song. DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him. Enter JAQUES FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach. DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily! JAQUES. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool. A miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool, Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms- and yet a motley fool. 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he, 'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.' And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock; Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags; 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer That fools should be so deep contemplative; And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear. DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this? JAQUES. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, And says, if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it; and in his brain, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat. DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one. JAQUES. It is my only suit, Provided that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows rank in them That I am wise. I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have; And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The why is plain as way to parish church: He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not, The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine. DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good? DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all th' embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, Till that the wearer's very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name When that I say the city-woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not on my cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of my speech? There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right, Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here? Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more. JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet. ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd. JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of? DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem'st so empty? ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet arn I inland bred, And know some nurture. But forbear, I say; He dies that touches any of this fruit Till I and my affairs are answered. JAQUES. An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die. DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness. ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it. DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you; I thought that all things had been savage here, And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have look'd on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be; In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church, And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red; And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be minist'red. ORLANDO. Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, And give it food. There is an old poor man Who after me hath many a weary step Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd, Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit. DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out. And we will nothing waste till you return. ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! Exit DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in. JAQUES. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden. And let him feed. ORLANDO. I thank you most for him. ADAM. So had you need; I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you As yet to question you about your fortunes. Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. SONG Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend rememb'red not. Heigh-ho! sing, &c. DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son, As you have whisper'd faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn'd and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, Thou art right welcome as thy master is. Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. The palace Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be. But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absent argument Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is; Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory. Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure do we seize into our hands, Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth Of what we think against thee. OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this! I never lov'd my brother in my life. FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors; And let my officers of such a nature Make an extent upon his house and lands. Do this expediently, and turn him going. Exeunt SCENE II. The forest Enter ORLANDO, with a paper ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love; And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree, The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE CORIN. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone? TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred. TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd? CORIN. No, truly. TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd. CORIN. Nay, I hope. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason. TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance. CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy. TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come. CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard. TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder instance; come. CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfum'd with civet. TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest. TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw. CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck. TOUCHSTONE. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape. CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother. Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper ROSALIND. 'From the east to western Inde, No jewel is like Rosalinde. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalinde. All the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalinde. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalinde.' TOUCHSTONE. I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right butter-women's rank to market. ROSALIND. Out, fool! TOUCHSTONE. For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalinde. If the cat will after kind, So be sure will Rosalinde. Winter garments must be lin'd, So must slender Rosalinde. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalinde. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalinde. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love's prick and Rosalinde. This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect yourself with them? ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar. TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. Enter CELIA, with a writing ROSALIND. Peace! Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside. CELIA. 'Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No; Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age; Some, of violated vows 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend; But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence end, Will I Rosalinda write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven Nature charg'd That one body should be fill'd With all graces wide-enlarg'd. Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part, Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalinde of many parts By heavenly synod was devis'd, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest priz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.' ROSALIND. O most gentle pulpiter! What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have patience, good people.' CELIA. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with him, sirrah. TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses? ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses. ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon these trees? ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. CELIA. Trow you who hath done this? ROSALIND. Is it a man? CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour? ROSALIND. I prithee, who? CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter. ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it? CELIA. Is it possible? ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping! ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle- either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly. ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard? CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard. ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant. ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid. CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he. ROSALIND. Orlando? CELIA. Orlando. ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word. CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism. ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled? CELIA. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn. ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit. CELIA. Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND. Proceed. CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight. ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground. CELIA. Cry 'Holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter. ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me out of tune. ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here? Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES ROSALIND. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him. JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society. JAQUES. God buy you; let's meet as little as we can. ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers. JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks. ORLANDO. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly. JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO. Yes, just. JAQUES. I do not like her name. ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christen'd. JAQUES. What stature is she of? ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart. JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings? ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions. JAQUES. You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery. ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults. JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love. ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you. JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you. ORLANDO. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him. JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love. ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. Exit JAQUES ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear, forester? ORLANDO. Very well; what would you? ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock? ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in the forest. ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper? ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. ORLANDO. I prithee, who doth he trot withal? ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year. ORLANDO. Who ambles Time withal? ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal. ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal? ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal? ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth? ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. ORLANDO. Are you native of this place? ROSALIND. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled. ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. ROSALIND. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal. ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women? ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one another as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them. ROSALIND. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your remedy. ROSALIND. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner. ORLANDO. What were his marks? ROSALIND. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. ROSALIND. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired? ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so? ROSALIND. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in 't. ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth. ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is. ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth. ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go? Exeunt SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you? AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features? TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch'd house! TOUCHSTONE. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. AUDREY. I do not know what 'poetical' is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign. AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical? TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign. AUDREY. Would you not have me honest? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool! AUDREY. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish. AUDREY. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. TOUCHSTONE. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us. JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting. AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy! TOUCHSTONE. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no end of his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel? MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman? TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man. MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her. TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir? You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be cover'd. JAQUES. Will you be married, motley? TOUCHSTONE. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. JAQUES. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber warp, warp. TOUCHSTONE. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. TOUCHSTONE. Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not- O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee. But- Wind away, Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee. Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exit SCENE IV. The forest Enter ROSALIND and CELIA ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep. CELIA. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man. ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep? CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep. ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. CELIA. Something browner than Judas's. Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour. CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour. ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. ROSALIND. Do you think so? CELIA. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut. ROSALIND. Not true in love? CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was. CELIA. 'Was' is not 'is'; besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke, your father. ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando? CELIA. O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter CORIN CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. CELIA. Well, and what of him? CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly play'd Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it. ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove! The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I'll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the forest Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe. Say that you love me not; but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops? Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye. 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down; Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee. Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it; lean upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes That can do hurt. SILVIUS. O dear Phebe, If ever- as that ever may be near- You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. PHEBE. But till that time Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As till that time I shall not pity thee. ROSALIND. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty- As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed- Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it; 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children. 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear: Sell when you can; you are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well. PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together; I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me? PHEBE. For no ill will I bear you. ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine; Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud; though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as he. Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN PHEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might: 'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?' SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe. PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me. PHEBE. Why, I arn sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd. PHEBE. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly? SILVIUS. I would have you. PHEBE. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love; But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure; and I'll employ thee too. But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then A scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon. PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of. PHEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth- not very pretty; But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him. He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall; His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him; For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, And, now I am rememb'red, scorn'd at me. I marvel why I answer'd not again; But that's all one: omittance is no quittance. I'll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Phebe, with all my heart. PHEBE. I'll write it straight; The matter's in my head and in my heart; I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE I. The forest Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES JAQUES. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow. JAQUES. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. JAQUES. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. ROSALIND. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. JAQUES. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. ROSALIND. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands. JAQUES. Yes, I have gain'd my experience. Enter ORLANDO ROSALIND. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad- and to travel for it too. ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! JAQUES. Nay, then, God buy you, an you talk in blank verse. ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES] Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. ORLANDO. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. ROSALIND. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' th' shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole. ORLANDO. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. ROSALIND. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be woo'd of a snail. ORLANDO. Of a snail! ROSALIND. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head- a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman; besides, he brings his destiny with him. ORLANDO. What's that? ROSALIND. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife. ORLANDO. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous. ROSALIND. And I am your Rosalind. CELIA. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. ROSALIND. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind? ORLANDO. I would kiss before I spoke. ROSALIND. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking- God warn us!- matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. ORLANDO. How if the kiss be denied? ROSALIND. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. ORLANDO. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? ROSALIND. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit. ORLANDO. What, of my suit? ROSALIND. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? ORLANDO. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her. ROSALIND. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you. ORLANDO. Then, in mine own person, I die. ROSALIND. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was- Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies: men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. ORLANDO. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me. ROSALIND. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it. ORLANDO. Then love me, Rosalind. ROSALIND. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all. ORLANDO. And wilt thou have me? ROSALIND. Ay, and twenty such. ORLANDO. What sayest thou? ROSALIND. Are you not good? ORLANDO. I hope so. ROSALIND. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister? ORLANDO. Pray thee, marry us. CELIA. I cannot say the words. ROSALIND. You must begin 'Will you, Orlando'- CELIA. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind? ORLANDO. I will. ROSALIND. Ay, but when? ORLANDO. Why, now; as fast as she can marry us. ROSALIND. Then you must say 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.' ORLANDO. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. ROSALIND. I might ask you for your commission; but- I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There's a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions. ORLANDO. So do all thoughts; they are wing'd. ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have possess'd her. ORLANDO. For ever and a day. ROSALIND. Say 'a day' without the 'ever.' No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou are inclin'd to sleep. ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so? ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do. ORLANDO. O, but she is wise. ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say 'Wit, whither wilt?' ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed. ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that? ROSALIND. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool! ORLANDO. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. ROSALIND. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours! ORLANDO. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again. ROSALIND. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. 'Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o'clock is your hour? ORLANDO. Ay, sweet Rosalind. ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise. ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind; so, adieu. ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try. Adieu. Exit ORLANDO CELIA. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must have your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest. ROSALIND. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal. CELIA. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out. ROSALIND. No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out- let him be judge how deep I am in love. I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come. CELIA. And I'll sleep. Exeunt SCENE II. The forest Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer? LORD. Sir, it was I. JAQUES. Let's present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose? LORD. Yes, sir. JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. SONG. What shall he have that kill'd the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. [The rest shall hear this burden:] Then sing him home. Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy father's father wore it; And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. Exeunt SCENE III. The forest Enter ROSALIND and CELIA ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? And here much Orlando! CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth- to sleep. Look, who comes here. Enter SILVIUS SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this. I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger. ROSALIND. Patience herself would startle at this letter, And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all. She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix. 'Od's my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt; Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device. SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents; Phebe did write it. ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands; She has a huswife's hand- but that's no matter. I say she never did invent this letter: This is a man's invention, and his hand. SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers. ROSALIND. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style; A style for challengers. Why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter? SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads] 'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?' Can a woman rail thus? SILVIUS. Call you this railing? ROSALIND. 'Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?' Did you ever hear such railing? 'Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me.' Meaning me a beast. 'If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect! Whiles you chid me, I did love; How then might your prayers move! He that brings this love to the Little knows this love in me; And by him seal up thy mind, Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make; Or else by him my love deny, And then I'll study how to die.' SILVIUS. Call you this chiding? CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd! ROSALIND. Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee! Not to be endur'd! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee tame snake, and say this to her- that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company. Exit SILVIUS Enter OLIVER OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees? CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom. The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream Left on your right hand brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself; There's none within. OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description- Such garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister; the woman low, And browner than her brother.' Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for? CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are. OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he? ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this? OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where, This handkercher was stain'd. CELIA. I pray you, tell it. OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befell! He threw his eye aside, And mark what object did present itself. Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush; under which bush's shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. This seen, Orlando did approach the man, And found it was his brother, his elder brother. CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render him the most unnatural That liv'd amongst men. OLIVER. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural. ROSALIND. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness? OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awak'd. CELIA. Are you his brother? ROSALIND. Was't you he rescu'd? CELIA. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? OLIVER. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I. I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. ROSALIND. But for the bloody napkin? OLIVER. By and by. When from the first to last, betwixt us two, Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, As how I came into that desert place- In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother's love; Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound, And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [ROSALIND swoons] CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede! OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. CELIA. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede! OLIVER. Look, he recovers. ROSALIND. I would I were at home. CELIA. We'll lead you thither. I pray you, will you take him by the arm? OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man! You lack a man's heart. ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho! OLIVER. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you. OLIVER. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. ROSALIND. So I do; but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right. CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler; pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. ROSALIND. I shall devise something; but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go? Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY TOUCHSTONE. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey. AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying. TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you. AUDREY. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in the world; here comes the man you mean. Enter WILLIAM TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for: we shall be flouting; we cannot hold. WILLIAM. Good ev'n, Audrey. AUDREY. God ye good ev'n, William. WILLIAM. And good ev'n to you, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, prithee be cover'd. How old are you, friend? WILLIAM. Five and twenty, sir. TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William? WILLIAM. William, sir. TOUCHSTONE. A fair name. Wast born i' th' forest here? WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God. TOUCHSTONE. 'Thank God.' A good answer. Art rich? WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so so. TOUCHSTONE. 'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise? WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying: 'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid? WILLIAM. I do, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned? WILLIAM. No, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me: to have is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being pour'd out of cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I am he. WILLIAM. Which he, sir? TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon- which is in the vulgar leave- the society-which in the boorish is company- of this female- which in the common is woman- which together is: abandon the society of this female; or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart. AUDREY. Do, good William. WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir. Exit Enter CORIN CORIN. Our master and mistress seeks you; come away, away. TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I attend. Exeunt SCENE II. The forest Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER ORLANDO. Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy her? OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It shall be to your good; for my father's house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind. Enter ROSALIND ROSALIND. God save you, brother. OLIVER. And you, fair sister. Exit ROSALIND. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf! ORLANDO. It is my arm. ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion. ORLANDO. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he show'd me your handkercher? ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that. ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There was never any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and overcame.' For your brother and my sister no sooner met but they look'd; no sooner look'd but they lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but they ask'd one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy- and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them. ORLANDO. They shall be married to-morrow; and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. ROSALIND. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind? ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking. ROSALIND. I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. Know of me then- for now I speak to some purpose- that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old, convers'd with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger. ORLANDO. Speak'st thou in sober meanings? ROSALIND. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers. PHEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness To show the letter that I writ to you. ROSALIND. I care not if I have. It is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you. You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd; Look upon him, love him; he worships you. PHEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears; And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And I for no woman. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service; And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And I for no woman. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion, and all made of wishes; All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, All purity, all trial, all obedience; And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And so am I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman. PHEBE. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? SILVIUS. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? ORLANDO. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? ROSALIND. Why do you speak too, 'Why blame you me to love you?' ORLANDO. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [To SILVIUS] I will help you if I can. [To PHEBE] I would love you if I could.- To-morrow meet me all together. [ To PHEBE ] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Silvius] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet. [To SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;- and as I love no woman, I'll meet. So, fare you well; I have left you commands. SILVIUS. I'll not fail, if I live. PHEBE. Nor I. ORLANDO. Nor I. Exeunt SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY TOUCHSTONE. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audre'y; to-morrow will we be married. AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banish'd Duke's pages. Enter two PAGES FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman. TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song. SECOND PAGE. We are for you; sit i' th' middle. FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice? SECOND PAGE. I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse. SONG. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, &c. This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower, In the spring time, &c. And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime, In the spring time, &c. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. FIRST PAGE. YOU are deceiv'd, sir; we kept time, we lost not our time. TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God buy you; and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey. Exeunt SCENE IV. The forest Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA DUKE SENIOR. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised? ORLANDO. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not: As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE ROSALIND. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd: You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here? DUKE SENIOR. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. ROSALIND. And you say you will have her when I bring her? ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. ROSALIND. You say you'll marry me, if I be willing? PHEBE. That will I, should I die the hour after. ROSALIND. But if you do refuse to marry me, You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd? PHEBE. So is the bargain. ROSALIND. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will? SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing. ROSALIND. I have promis'd to make all this matter even. Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter; You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter; Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me, Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd; Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her If she refuse me; and from hence I go, To make these doubts all even. Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA DUKE SENIOR. I do remember in this shepherd boy Some lively touches of my daughter's favour. ORLANDO. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him Methought he was a brother to your daughter. But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born, And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY JAQUES. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts which in all tongues are call'd fools. TOUCHSTONE. Salutation and greeting to you all! JAQUES. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he swears. TOUCHSTONE. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flatt'red a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one. JAQUES. And how was that ta'en up? TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. JAQUES. How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow. DUKE SENIOR. I like him very well. TOUCHSTONE. God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. DUKE SENIOR. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious. TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases. JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause: how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause? TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed- bear your body more seeming, Audrey- as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is call'd the Retort Courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself. This is call'd the Quip Modest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment. This is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof Valiant. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This is call'd the Countercheck Quarrelsome. And so to the Lie Circumstantial and the Lie Direct. JAQUES. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut? TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measur'd swords and parted. JAQUES. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie? TOUCHSTONE. O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have books for good manners. I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too with an If. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as: 'If you said so, then I said so.' And they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He's as good at any thing, and yet a fool. DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit: Enter HYMEN, ROSALIND, and CELIA. Still MUSIC HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven, When earthly things made even Atone together. Good Duke, receive thy daughter; Hymen from heaven brought her, Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his, Whose heart within his bosom is. ROSALIND. [To DUKE] To you I give myself, for I am yours. [To ORLANDO] To you I give myself, for I am yours. DUKE SENIOR. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. ORLANDO. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. PHEBE. If sight and shape be true, Why then, my love adieu! ROSALIND. I'll have no father, if you be not he; I'll have no husband, if you be not he; Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. HYMEN. Peace, ho! I bar confusion; 'Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events. Here's eight that must take hands To join in Hymen's bands, If truth holds true contents. You and you no cross shall part; You and you are heart in heart; You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord; You and you are sure together, As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning, That reason wonder may diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish. SONG Wedding is great Juno's crown; O blessed bond of board and bed! 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; High wedlock then be honoured. Honour, high honour, and renown, To Hymen, god of every town! DUKE SENIOR. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me! Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. PHEBE. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. Enter JAQUES de BOYS JAQUES de BOYS. Let me have audience for a word or two. I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot, In his own conduct, purposely to take His brother here, and put him to the sword; And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, Where, meeting with an old religious man, After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world; His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother, And all their lands restor'd to them again That were with him exil'd. This to be true I do engage my life. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man. Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding: To one, his lands withheld; and to the other, A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number, That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us, Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music; and you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap'd in joy, to th' measures fall. JAQUES. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The Duke hath put on a religious life, And thrown into neglect the pompous court. JAQUES DE BOYS. He hath. JAQUES. To him will I. Out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learn'd. [To DUKE] You to your former honour I bequeath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it. [To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit; [To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies [To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed; [To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victuall'd.- So to your pleasures; I am for other than for dancing measures. DUKE SENIOR. Stay, Jaques, stay. JAQUES. To see no pastime I. What you would have I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. Exit DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed. We will begin these rites, As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance] Exeunt EPILOGUE EPILOGUE. ROSALIND. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnish'd like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My way is to conjure you; and I'll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you; and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women- as I perceive by your simp'ring none of you hates them- that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell. THE END <> End of this Etext of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare As You Like It 2236 ---- None 23043 ---- [Transcriber's Note: This text of _Two Gentlemen of Verona_ is from Volume I of the nine-volume 1863 Cambridge edition of Shakespeare. The Preface (e-text 23041) and the other plays from this volume are each available as separate e-texts. General Notes are in their original location at the end of the play. Text-critical notes are grouped at the end of each Scene. All line numbers are from the original text; line breaks in dialogue--including prose passages--are unchanged. Brackets are also unchanged; to avoid ambiguity, footnotes and linenotes are given without added brackets. In the notes, numerals printed as subscripts are shown inline as F1, F2, Q1.... Texts cited in the Notes are listed at the end of the e-text.] THE WORKS of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Edited by WILLIAM GEORGE CLARK, M.A. Fellow and Tutor of Trinity College, and Public Orator in the University of Cambridge; and JOHN GLOVER, M.A. Librarian Of Trinity College, Cambridge. _VOLUME I._ Cambridge and London: MACMILLAN AND CO. 1863. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ[1]. DUKE OF MILAN[2], Father to Silvia. VALENTINE, } PROTEUS[3], } the two Gentlemen. ANTONIO[4], Father to Proteus. THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine. EGLAMOUR, Agent for Silvia in her escape. HOST, where Julia lodges. OUTLAWS, with Valentine. SPEED, a clownish Servant to Valentine. LAUNCE, the like to Proteus. PANTHINO[5], Servant to Antonio. JULIA, beloved of Proteus. SILVIA, beloved of Valentine. LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia. Servants, Musicians[6]. SCENE, _Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua[7]_. Footnotes: 1: DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.] THE NAMES OF ALL THE ACTORS F1, at the end of the play. 2: OF MILAN] added by Pope. 3: PROTEUS] Steevens. PROTHEUS Ff. See note (I). 4: ANTONIO] Capell. ANTHONIO Ff. 5: PANTHINO] Capell. PANTHION Ff. See note (I). 6: _Servants, Musicians_] Theobald. 7: SCENE ...] Pope and Hanmer. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT I. SCENE I. _Verona. An open place._ _Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS._ _Val._ Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus: Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, I rather would entreat thy company 5 To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lovest, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would, when I to love begin. 10 _Pro._ Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu! Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel: Wish me partaker in thy happiness, When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, 15 If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. _Val._ And on a love-book pray for my success? _Pro._ Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee. 20 _Val._ That's on some shallow story of deep love: How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. _Pro._ That's a deep story of a deeper love; For he was more than over shoes in love. _Val._ 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love, 25 And yet you never swum the Hellespont. _Pro._ Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots. _Val._ No, I will not, for it boots thee not. _Pro._ What? _Val._ To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth 30 With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 35 _Pro._ So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. _Val._ So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove. _Pro._ 'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love. _Val._ Love is your master, for he masters you: And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40 Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise. _Pro._ Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. _Val._ And writers say, as the most forward bud 45 Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. 50 But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee, That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu! my father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd. _Pro._ And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 55 _Val._ Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 60 _Pro._ All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! _Val._ As much to you at home! and so, farewell. [_Exit._ _Pro._ He after honour hunts, I after love: He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. 65 Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. _Enter SPEED._ _Speed._ Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master? 70 _Pro._ But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan. _Speed._ Twenty to one, then, he is shipp'd already, And I have play'd the sheep in losing him. _Pro._ Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be awhile away. 75 _Speed._ You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, and I a sheep? _Pro._ I do. _Speed._ Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. 80 _Pro._ A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. _Speed._ This proves me still a sheep. _Pro._ True; and thy master a shepherd. _Speed._ Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. _Pro._ It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another. 85 _Speed._ The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me: therefore I am no sheep. _Pro._ The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages 90 followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep. _Speed._ Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.' _Pro._ But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia? 95 _Speed._ Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. _Pro._ Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons. _Speed._ If the ground be overcharged, you were best 100 stick her. _Pro._ Nay: in that you are astray, 'twere best pound you. _Speed._ Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. _Pro._ You mistake; I mean the pound,--a pinfold. 105 _Speed._ From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over, 'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. _Pro._ But what said she? _Speed._ [_First nodding_] Ay. _Pro._ Nod--Ay--why, that's noddy. 110 _Speed._ You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, 'Ay.' _Pro._ And that set together is noddy. _Speed._ Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. 115 _Pro._ No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter. _Speed._ Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. _Pro._ Why, sir, how do you bear with me? _Speed._ Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word 'noddy' for my pains. 120 _Pro._ Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. _Speed._ And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. _Pro._ Come, come, open the matter in brief: what said she? _Speed._ Open your purse, that the money and the matter 125 may be both at once delivered. _Pro._ Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she? _Speed._ Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her. _Pro._ Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her? _Speed._ Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; 130 no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter: and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones; for she's as hard as steel. _Pro._ What said she? nothing? 135 _Speed._ No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master. _Pro._ Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, 140 Which cannot perish having thee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore. [_Exit Speed._ I must go send some better messenger: I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. [_Exit._ 145 Notes: I, 1. 8: _with_] _in_ Capell. 19: _my_] F1. _thy_ F2 F3 F4. 21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 25: _for_] _but_ Collier MS. 28: _thee_] om. S. Walker conj. See note (II). 30: _fading_] om. Hanmer. 48: _blasting_] _blasted_ Collier MS. 57: _To_] F1. _At_ F2 F3 F4. _To Milan!--let me hear_ Malone conj. 65: _leave_] Pope. _love_ Ff. 69: _Made_] _Make_ Johnson conj. 70: SCENE II. Pope. 70-144: Put in the margin by Pope. 77: _a_] F2 F3 F4. om. F1. 89: _follow_] _follows_ Pope. 102: _astray_] _a stray_ Theobald (Thirlby conj.) _Nay: ... astray,_] Edd. _Nay, ... astray:_ Ff. 105: _a_] _the_ Delius (Capell conj.). 108, 109: Pro. _But what said she?_ Speed. [First nodding] _Ay._] Edd. Pro. _But what said she?_ Sp. _I._ Ff. Pro. _But what said she?_ Speed. _She nodded and said I._ Pope. Pro. _But what said she? Did she nod?_ [Speed nods] Speed. _I._ Theobald. Pro. _But what said she?_ [Speed _nods_] _Did she nod?_ Speed. _I._ Capell. 110: _Nod--Ay--_] _Nod--I,_ Ff. 111, 112: _say ... say_] F1. _said ... said_ F2 F3 F4. 126: _at once_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 130-134: Printed as verse in Ff. 130: _from her_] _from her better_ Collier MS. to rhyme with _letter_ in the next line. 132: _brought_] _brought to her_ Collier MS. 133: _your_] F1. _her_ F2 F3 F4. _you her_ Collier MS. 135: _What said she? nothing?_] _What said she, nothing?_ Ff. _What, said she nothing?_ Pope. 137: _as 'Take ... I thank you_] _as 'I thank you; take ..._ Edd. conj. _testerned_] F2 F3 F4. _cestern'd_ F1. 138: _henceforth_] F1 F3 F4. _hencefore_ F2. _letters_] F1. _letter_ F2 F3 F4. SCENE II. _The same. Garden of JULIA'S house._ _Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._ _Jul._ But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love? _Luc._ Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully. _Jul._ Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, 5 In thy opinion which is worthiest love? _Luc._ Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind According to my shallow simple skill. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? _Luc._ As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 10 But, were I you, he never should be mine. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio? _Luc._ Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so. _Jul._ What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus? _Luc._ Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us! 15 _Jul._ How now! what means this passion at his name? _Luc._ Pardon, dear madam: 'tis a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. _Jul._ Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 20 _Luc._ Then thus,--of many good I think him best. _Jul._ Your reason? _Luc._ I have no other but a woman's reason; I think him so, because I think him so. _Jul._ And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? 25 _Luc._ Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. _Jul._ Why, he, of all the rest, hath never moved me. _Luc._ Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. _Jul._ His little speaking shows his love but small. _Luc._ Fire that's closest kept burns most of all. 30 _Jul._ They do not love that do not show their love. _Luc._ O, they love least that let men know their love. _Jul._ I would I knew his mind. _Luc._ Peruse this paper, madam. _Jul._ 'To Julia.'--Say, from whom? 35 _Luc._ That the contents will show. _Jul._ Say, say, who gave it thee? _Luc._ Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus. He would have given it you; but I, being in the way, Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I pray. 40 _Jul._ Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth, And you an officer fit for the place. 45 There, take the paper: see it be return'd; Or else return no more into my sight. _Luc._ To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. _Jul._ Will ye be gone? _Luc._ That you may ruminate. [_Exit._ _Jul._ And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter: 50 It were a shame to call her back again, And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid, And would not force the letter to my view! Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that 55 Which they would have the profferer construe 'ay.' Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love, That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 60 When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is, to call Lucetta back, And ask remission for my folly past. 65 What, ho! Lucetta! _Re-enter LUCETTA._ _Luc._ What would your ladyship? _Jul._ Is't near dinner-time? _Luc._ I would it were; That you might kill your stomach on your meat, And not upon your maid. _Jul._ What is't that you took up so gingerly? 70 _Luc._ Nothing. _Jul._ Why didst thou stoop, then? _Luc._ To take a paper up that I let fall. _Jul._ And is that paper nothing? _Luc._ Nothing concerning me. 75 _Jul._ Then let it lie for those that it concerns. _Luc._ Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. _Jul._ Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. _Luc._ That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 80 Give me a note: your ladyship can set. _Jul._ --As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' love.' _Luc._ It is too heavy for so light a tune. _Jul._ Heavy! belike it hath some burden, then? 85 _Luc._ Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it. _Jul._ And why not you? _Luc._ I cannot reach so high. _Jul._ Let's see your song. How now, minion! _Luc._ Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 90 _Jul._ You do not? _Luc._ No, madam; it is too sharp. _Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy. _Luc._ Nay, now you are too flat, And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 95 _Jul._ The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass. _Luc._ Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. _Jul._ This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter._ Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 100 You would be fingering them, to anger me. _Luc._ She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased To be so anger'd with another letter. [_Exit._ _Jul._ Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same! O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! 105 Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey, And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings! I'll kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 110 I throw thy name against the bruising stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.' Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed, Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd; 115 And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away, Till I have found each letter in the letter, Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear 120 Unto a ragged, fearful-hanging rock, And throw it thence into the raging sea! Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia':--that I'll tear away.-- 125 And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another: Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. _Re-enter LUCETTA._ _Luc._ Madam, 130 Dinner is ready, and your father stays. _Jul._ Well, let us go. _Luc._ What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? _Jul._ If you respect them, best to take them up. _Luc._ Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: 135 Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. _Jul._ I see you have a month's mind to them. _Luc._ Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink. _Jul._ Come, come; will't please you go? [_Exeunt._ 140 Notes: I, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope. Garden &c.] Malone. Changes to Julia's chamber. Pope. 1: _now we are_] F1. _now are we_ F2 F3 F4. 5: _parle_] _par'le_ Ff. 15: _reigns_] _feigns_ Anon. conj. 18: _am_] _can_ Collier MS. 19: _censure ... gentlemen_] _censure on a lovely gentleman_ S. Verges conj. _censure on this lovely gentleman_ Edd. conj. _thus_] _pass_ Hanmer. _on lovely gentlemen_] _a lovely gentleman_ Pope. _a loving gentleman_ Collier MS. 20: _of_] _on_ S. Verges conj. 30: _Fire_] Ff. _The fire_ Pope. _that's_] _that is_ Johnson. 39: _being in the way_] _being by_ Pope. 40: _pardon the fault, I pray_] _pardon me_ Pope. 53: _What a fool_] _What 'foole_ F1 F2 F3. _What fool_ F4. See note (III). 67: _Is't_] _Is it_ Capell. _near_] om. Boswell. 81: F1 omits the stop after _set_. 83: _o' Love_] Theobald. _O, Love_ F1 F2. _O Love_ F3 F4. 88: _How now_] _Why, how now_ Hanmer. After this line Hanmer adds a stage direction [Gives her a box on the ear]. 96: _your_] _you_ F1. 99: [Tears the letter.] [Tears it. Pope. 102: _best pleased_] _pleased better_ Collier MS. 103: [Exit] F2. 121: _fearful-hanging_] Delius. _fearful, hanging_ Ff. 130, 131: _Madam, Dinner is_] _Madam, dinner's_ Capell conj. 137: _to_] _unto_ Collier MS. _them._] _them, minion._ Hanmer. 138: _say what sights you see_] _see what sights you think_ Collier MS. SCENE III. _The same. ANTONIO'S house._ _Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO._ _Ant._ Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? _Pan._ 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. _Ant._ Why, what of him? _Pan._ He wonder'd that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 5 While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. 10 For any, or for all these exercises, He said that Proteus your son was meet; And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age, 15 In having known no travel in his youth. _Ant._ Nor need'st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have consider'd well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20 Not being tried and tutor'd in the world: Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time. Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him? _Pan._ I think your lordship is not ignorant 25 How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the emperor in his royal court. _Ant._ I know it well. _Pan._ 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither: There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 30 Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. _Ant._ I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised: And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it 35 The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the emperor's court. _Pan._ To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso, With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40 Are journeying to salute the emperor, And to commend their service to his will. _Ant._ Good company; with them shall Proteus go: And, in good time! now will we break with him. _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! 45 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn. O, that our fathers would applaud our loves, To seal our happiness with their consents! O heavenly Julia! 50 _Ant._ How now! what letter are you reading there? _Pro._ May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Deliver'd by a friend that came from him. _Ant._ Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 55 _Pro._ There is no news, my lord; but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved, And daily graced by the emperor; Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. _Ant._ And how stand you affected to his wish? 60 _Pro._ As one relying on your lordship's will, And not depending on his friendly wish. _Ant._ My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; For what I will, I will, and there an end. 65 I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the emperor's court: What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. To-morrow be in readiness to go: 70 Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. _Pro._ My lord, I cannot be so soon provided: Please you, deliberate a day or two. _Ant._ Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee: No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. 75 Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd To hasten on his expedition. [_Exeunt Ant. and Pan._ _Pro._ Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning, And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd. I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, 80 Lest he should take exceptions to my love; And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, 85 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away! _Re-enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Sir Proteus, your father calls for you: He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. _Pro._ Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, 90 And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.' [_Exeunt._ Notes: I, 3. SCENE III.] SCENE IV. Pope. Antonio's House.] Theobald. 1: _Panthino_] F1 F2. _Panthion_ F3 F4. 21: _and_] F1. _nor_ F2 F3 F4. 24: _whither_] F2 F3 F4. _whether_ F1. 44: _And, in good time!_] _And in good time:_ F1. _And in good time,_ F2 F3 F4. _And,--in good time:_--Dyce. 44: Enter Proteus] F2. 45: _sweet life_] _sweet life! sweet Julia_ Capell. 49: _To_] _And_ Collier MS. 65: _there_] F1 F2. _there's_ F3 F4. 67: _Valentinus_] F1. _Valentino_ F2 F3 F4. _Valentine_ Warburton. 77: [Exeunt Ant. and Pan.]. Rowe. 84: _resembleth_] _resembleth well_ Pope. _resembleth right_ Johnson conj. 86: _sun_] _light_ Johnson conj. 88: Re-enter Panthino.] om. F1. Enter. F2. _father_] _fathers_ F1. 91: [Exeunt.] Exeunt. Finis. Ff. ACT II. SCENE I. _Milan. The DUKE'S Palace._ _Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._ _Speed._ Sir, your glove. _Val._ Not mine; my gloves are on. _Speed._ Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. _Val._ Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine: Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! 5 _Speed._ Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! _Val._ How now, sirrah? _Speed._ She is not within hearing, sir. _Val._ Why, sir, who bade you call her? _Speed._ Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 10 _Val._ Well, you'll still be too forward. _Speed._ And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. _Val._ Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? _Speed._ She that your worship loves? _Val._ Why, how know you that I am in love? 15 _Speed._ Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young 20 wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after 25 dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. _Val._ Are all these things perceived in me? _Speed._ They are all perceived without ye. 30 _Val._ Without me? they cannot. _Speed._ Without you? nay, that's certain, for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that 35 sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. _Val._ But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? _Speed._ She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper? _Val._ Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean. _Speed._ Why, sir, I know her not. 40 _Val._ Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not? _Speed._ Is she not hard-favoured, sir? _Val._ Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. _Speed._ Sir, I know that well enough. 45 _Val._ What dost thou know? _Speed._ That she is not so fair as, of you, well favoured. _Val._ I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite. _Speed._ That's because the one is painted, and the other 50 out of all count. _Val._ How painted? and how out of count? _Speed._ Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. _Val._ How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty. 55 _Speed._ You never saw her since she was deformed. _Val._ How long hath she been deformed? _Speed._ Ever since you loved her. _Val._ I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful. 60 _Speed._ If you love her, you cannot see her. _Val._ Why? _Speed._ Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! 65 _Val._ What should I see then? _Speed._ Your own present folly, and her passing deformity: for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. _Val._ Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning 70 you could not see to wipe my shoes. _Speed._ True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. _Val._ In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 75 _Speed._ I would you were set, so your affection would cease. _Val._ Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. _Speed._ And have you? 80 _Val._ I have. _Speed._ Are they not lamely writ? _Val._ No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes. _Speed._ [_Aside_] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! 85 Now will he interpret to her. _Enter SILVIA._ _Val._ Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows. _Speed._ [_Aside_] O, give ye good even! here's a million of manners. _Sil._ Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. 90 _Speed._ [_Aside_] He should give her interest, and she gives it him. _Val._ As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, 95 But for my duty to your ladyship. _Sil._ I thank you, gentle servant: 'tis very clerkly done. _Val._ Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. 100 _Sil._ Perchance you think too much of so much pains? _Val._ No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet-- _Sil._ A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel; 105 And yet I will not name it;--and yet I care not;-- And yet take this again:--and yet I thank you; Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. _Speed._ [_Aside_] And yet you will; and yet another 'yet.' _Val._ What means your ladyship? do you not like it? 110 _Sil._ Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. _Val._ Madam, they are for you. _Sil._ Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request; 115 But I will none of them; they are for you; I would have had them writ more movingly. _Val._ Please you, I'll write your ladyship another. _Sil._ And when it's writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. 120 _Val._ If it please me, madam, what then? _Sil._ Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: And so, good morrow, servant. [_Exit._ _Speed._ O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple! 125 My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? _Val._ How now, sir? what are you reasoning with 130 yourself? _Speed._ Nay. I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason. _Val._ To do what? _Speed._ To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. 135 _Val._ To whom? _Speed._ To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure. _Val._ What figure? _Speed._ By a letter, I should say. _Val._ Why, she hath not writ to me? 140 _Speed._ What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? _Val._ No, believe me. _Speed._ No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? 145 _Val._ She gave me none, except an angry word. _Speed._ Why, she hath given you a letter. _Val._ That's the letter I writ to her friend. _Speed._ And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. 150 _Val._ I would it were no worse. _Speed._ I'll warrant you, 'tis as well: For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty, Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply; Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover, 155 Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time. _Val._ I have dined. _Speed._ Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon 160 Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 1. 19: _had_] _hath_ Collier MS. 21: _buried_] F1. _lost_ F2 F3 F4. 27: _you are_] _you are so_ Collier MS. 32: _Without you?_] _Without you!_ Dyce. 33: _would_] _would be_ Collier MS. 41: _my_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4. 68, 69: See note (IV). 76: _set,_] _set;_ Malone. 85, 88, 91: [Aside] Capell. 91: Speed.] F1 F4. Sil. F2 F3. 96: _for_] om. F3 F4. 102: _stead_] _steed_ Ff. 106: _name it_] _name 't_ Capell. _and yet_] _yet_ Pope. 109: [Aside] Rowe. 114: _for_] _writ for_ Anon. conj. 124, 125: Printed as prose by Pope. 129: _scribe_] _the scribe_ Pope. 137: _wooes_] _woes_ Ff. (IV. ii. 138. _woe_ F1. _wooe_ F2 F3 F4.) 149: _there_] F1. _there's_ F2 F3 F4. SCENE II. _Verona. JULIA'S house._ _Enter PROTEUS and JULIA._ _Pro._ Have patience, gentle Julia. _Jul._ I must, where is no remedy. _Pro._ When possibly I can, I will return. _Jul._ If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 5 [_Giving a ring._ _Pro._ Why, then, we'll make exchange; here, take you this. _Jul._ And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. _Pro._ Here is my hand for my true constancy; And when that hour o'erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 10 The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness! My father stays my coming; answer not; The tide is now:--nay, not thy tide of tears; That tide will stay me longer than I should. 15 Julia, farewell! [_Exit Julia._ What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak; For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. _Enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. _Pro._ Go; I come, I come. 20 Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 2. 5: [Giving a ring] Rowe. 16: [Exit Julia] Rowe. 20: _I come, I come_] _I come_ Pope. SCENE III. _The same. A street._ _Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog._ _Launce._ Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother 5 weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have 10 seen our parting; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll shew you the manner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser 15 sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance on't! there 'tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,--Oh! the dog is 20 me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing: now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; 25 why, there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. _Enter PANTHINO._ _Pan._ Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, 30 and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you'll lose the tide, if you tarry any longer. _Launce._ It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. 35 _Pan._ What's the unkindest tide? _Launce._ Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog. _Pan._ Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood: and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, 40 and, in losing thy service,--Why dost thou stop my mouth? _Launce._ For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. _Pan._ Where should I lose my tongue? _Launce._ In thy tale. _Pan._ In thy tail! 45 _Launce._ Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. _Pan._ Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 50 _Launce._ Sir, call me what thou darest. _Pan._ Wilt thou go? _Launce._ Well, I will go. [_Exeunt._ Notes: II, 3. 9: _pebble_] _pibble_ Ff. 20: _I am the dog_] _I am me_ Hanmer. _Oh, the dog is me_] _Ay, the dog is the dog_ Hanmer. 25: _she_] _the shoe_ Hanmer. _a wood woman_] Theobald. _a would woman_ Ff. _an ould woman_ Pope. _a wild woman_ Collier MS. Malone (Blackstone conj.) punctuates (_O that she could speak now!_) 35: _tied ... tied_] _Tide ... tide_ F1. _Tide ... tyde_ F2 F3 F4. 45: _thy tail!_] _my tail?_ Hanmer. [Kicking him. Anon. conj. 46: _tide_] _Tide_ F1 F4. _Tyde_ F2 F3. _flood_ Pope. _tied_ Collier. 47: _and the tied_] Singer. _and the tide_ Ff. om. Capell. _The tide!_ Steevens. _indeed!_ S. Verges conj. SCENE IV. _Milan. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED._ _Sil._ Servant! _Val._ Mistress? _Speed._ Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. _Val._ Ay, boy, it's for love. _Speed._ Not of you. 5 _Val._ Of my mistress, then. _Speed._ 'Twere good you knocked him. [_Exit._ _Sil._ Servant, you are sad. _Val._ Indeed, madam, I seem so. _Thu._ Seem you that you are not? 10 _Val._ Haply I do. _Thu._ So do counterfeits. _Val._ So do you. _Thu._ What seem I that I am not? _Val._ Wise. 15 _Thu._ What instance of the contrary? _Val._ Your folly. _Thu._ And how quote you my folly? _Val._ I quote it in your jerkin. _Thu._ My jerkin is a doublet. 20 _Val._ Well, then, I'll double your folly. _Thu._ How? _Sil._ What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour? _Val._ Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. _Thu._ That hath more mind to feed on your blood than 25 live in your air. _Val._ You have said, sir. _Thu._ Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. _Val._ I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin. _Sil._ A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly 30 shot off. _Val._ 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. _Sil._ Who is that, servant? _Val._ Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and 35 spends what he borrows kindly in your company. _Thu._ Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. _Val._ I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, 40 for it appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare words. _Sil._ No more, gentlemen, no more:--here comes my father. _Enter DUKE._ _Duke._ Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. 45 Sir Valentine, your father's in good health: What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news? _Val._ My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. _Duke._ Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman? 50 _Val._ Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth, and worthy estimation, And not without desert so well reputed. _Duke._ Hath he not a son? _Val._ Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 55 The honour and regard of such a father. _Duke._ You know him well? _Val._ I know him as myself; for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together: And though myself have been an idle truant, 60 Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days; His years but young, but his experience old; 65 His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe; And, in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 70 _Duke._ Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress' love As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, With commendation from great potentates; 75 And here he means to spend his time awhile: I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you. _Val._ Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he. _Duke._ Welcome him, then, according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio, 80 For Valentine, I need not cite him to it: I will send him hither to you presently. [_Exit._ _Val._ This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me, but that his mistress Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 85 _Sil._ Belike that now she hath enfranchised them, Upon some other pawn for fealty. _Val._ Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. _Sil._ Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind, How could he see his way to seek out you? 90 _Val._ Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. _Thu._ They say that Love hath not an eye at all. _Val._ To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: Upon a homely object Love can wink. _Sil._ Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman. 95 _Enter PROTEUS. [Exit THURIO._ _Val._ Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you, Confirm his welcome with some special favour. _Sil._ His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. _Val._ Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him 100 To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. _Sil._ Too low a mistress for so high a servant. _Pro._ Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant To have a look of such a worthy mistress. _Val._ Leave off discourse of disability: 105 Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. _Pro._ My duty will I boast of; nothing else. _Sil._ And duty never yet did want his meed: Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. _Pro._ I'll die on him that says so but yourself. 110 _Sil._ That you are welcome? _Pro._ That you are worthless. _Re-enter THURIO._ _Thu._ Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. _Sil._ I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio, Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome: I'll leave you to confer of home affairs; 115 When you have done, we look to hear from you. _Pro._ We'll both attend upon your ladyship. [_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio._ _Val._ Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came? _Pro._ Your friends are well, and have them much commended. _Val._ And how do yours? _Pro._ I left them all in health. 120 _Val._ How does your lady? and how thrives your love? _Pro._ My tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. _Val._ Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now: I have done penance for contemning Love, 125 Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs; For, in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, 130 And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow. O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord, And hath so humbled me; as I confess There is no woe to his correction, Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 135 Now no discourse, except it be of love; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep, Upon the very naked name of love. _Pro._ Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? 140 _Val._ Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? _Pro._ No; but she is an earthly paragon. _Val._ Call her divine. _Pro._ I will not flatter her. _Val._ O, flatter me; for love delights in praises. _Pro._ When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills; 145 And I must minister the like to you. _Val._ Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. _Pro._ Except my mistress. _Val._ Sweet, except not any; 150 Except thou wilt except against my love. _Pro._ Have I not reason to prefer mine own? _Val._ And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour,-- To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth 155 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, And make rough winter everlastingly. _Pro._ Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 160 _Val._ Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. _Pro._ Then let her alone. _Val._ Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own; And I as rich in having such a jewel 165 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee, Because thou see'st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes 170 Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along; and I must after, For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy. _Pro._ But she loves you? _Val._ Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our marriage-hour, 175 With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of; how I must climb her window; The ladder made of cords; and all the means Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 180 In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. _Pro._ Go on before; I shall inquire you forth: I must unto the road, to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use; And then I'll presently attend you. 185 _Val._ Will you make haste? _Pro._ I will. [_Exit Valentine._ Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love 190 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine, or Valentine's praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus? She is fair; and so is Julia, that I love.-- 195 That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. 200 O, but I love his lady too too much! And that's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her! 'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, 205 And that hath dazzled my reason's light; But when I look on her perfections, There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. [_Exit._ 210 Notes: II, 4. 2: [They converse apart] Capell. 7: [Exit] Edd. See note (V). 21: _I'll_] _Ile_ Ff. _'twill_ Collier MS. 45: SCENE V. Pope. Enter DUKE.] Enter DUKE attended. Capell. 49: _happy_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 50: _ye_] F1. _you_ F2 F3 F4. 52: _worth_] _wealth_ Collier MS. and S. Walker conj. 58: _Know_] Hanmer. _Knew_ Ff. 68: _comes_] Ff. _come_ Rowe. 77: _unwelcome_] F1. _welcome_ F2 F3 F4. 81: _cite_] _'cite_ Malone. 82: _I will_] _I'll_ Pope. [Exit] Rowe. 95: SCENE VI. Pope. Enter PROTEUS.] Enter. F2. Exit THURIO.] Collier. See note (V). 97: _his_] F1. _this_ F2 F3 F4. 104: _a worthy_] _a worthy a_ F1. 111: _welcome_] _welcome, sir_ Capell. _That you are worthless_] _No, that you are worthless_ Johnson. Re-enter THURIO.] om. Ff. Enter THURIO. Collier. Enter a Servant. Theobald. 112: Thu.] Ff. Serv. Theobald. 113: [Exit servant. Theobald. 114: _Go_] _Go you_ Capell. _new servant_] _my new servant_ Pope. 117: [Exeunt S. and T.] Rowe. 118: SCENE VII. Pope. 126: _Whose_] _Those_ Johnson conj. 133: _as I confess_] _as, I confess,_ Warburton. 135: _no such_] _any_ Hanmer. 144: _praises_] F1. _praise_ F2 F3 F4. 158: _summer-swelling_] _summer-smelling_ Steevens conj. (withdrawn). 160: _braggardism_] Steevens. _bragadism_ Ff. 162: _makes_] _make_ F1. _worthies_] _worth as_ Grant White. 163: _Then_] _Why, then_ Hanmer. 167: _rocks_] F1. _rocke_ F2. _rock_ F3 F4. 175: _Ay, and we are_] _Ay, And we're_ Edd. conj. _nay, more_] _Nay, more, my Protheus_ Capell. _marriage-hour_] _marriage_ Pope. 185: _you_] _upon you_ Hanmer. _on you_ Capell. 187: [Exit Val.] [Exit. F1. om. F2 F3 F4. [Exeunt Valentine and Speed. Dyce. See note (V). 192: _Is it ... praise,_] _It is mine, or Valentine's praise?_ F1. _Is it mine then, or Valentineans praise?_ F2 F3 F4. _Is it mine then or Valentino's praise,_ Rowe, Pope. _Is it mine eye or Valentine's praise,_ Theobald (Warburton). _Is it mine eyne, or Valentino's praise,_ Hanmer. _Is it mine own, or Valentino's praise,_ Capell. _Is it her mien, or Valentinus' praise,_ Malone (Blakeway conj.). See note (VI). 206: _dazzled_] _dazel'd_ F1. _dazel'd so_ F2 F3 F4. 210: [Exit.] F2. [Exeunt. F1. SCENE V. _The same. A street._ _Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally._ _Speed._ Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua! _Launce._ Forswear not thyself, sweet youth; for I am not welcome. I reckon this always--that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!' 5 _Speed._ Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? _Launce._ Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted 10 very fairly in jest. _Speed._ But shall she marry him? _Launce._ No. _Speed._ How, then? shall he marry her? _Launce._ No, neither. 15 _Speed._ What, are they broken? _Launce._ No, they are both as whole as a fish. _Speed._ Why, then, how stands the matter with them? _Launce._ Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. 20 _Speed._ What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. _Launce._ What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me. _Speed._ What thou sayest? _Launce._ Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but 25 lean, and my staff understands me. _Speed._ It stands under thee, indeed. _Launce._ Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. _Speed._ But tell me true, will't be a match? _Launce._ Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he say, 30 no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. _Speed._ The conclusion is, then, that it will. _Launce._ Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. _Speed._ 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how 35 sayest thou, that my master is become a notable lover? _Launce._ I never knew him otherwise. _Speed._ Than how? _Launce._ A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. _Speed._ Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. 40 _Launce._ Why fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master. _Speed._ I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. _Launce._ Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name 45 of a Christian. _Speed._ Why? _Launce._ Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? _Speed._ At thy service. [_Exeunt._ 50 Notes: II, 5. SCENE V.] SCENA QUINTA F1. SCENA QUARTA F2 F3 F4. SCENE VIII. Pope. 1: _Padua_] Ff. _Milan_ Pope. See note (VII). 4: _be_] _is_ Rowe. 21-28: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 36: _that_] F2 F3 F4. _that that_ F1. 44: _in love. If thou wilt, go_] Knight. _in love. If thou wilt go_ Ff. _in love, if thou wilt go_ Collier (Malone conj.). _alehouse_] F1. _alehouse, so_ F2 F3 F4. 49: _ale_] _ale-house_ Rowe. SCENE VI. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And even that power, which gave me first my oath, Provokes me to this threefold perjury; 5 Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. 10 Unheedful vows may needfully be broken; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 15 With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose: If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 20 If I lose them, thus find I by their loss For Valentine, myself, for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself; And Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!-- 25 Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I'll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 30 I cannot now prove constant to myself, Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window; Myself in counsel, his competitor. 35 Now presently I'll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight; Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross 40 By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [_Exit._ Notes: II, 6. SCENE VI.] SCENE IX. Pope. Enter PROTEUS.] Enter PROTHEUS solus. Ff. 1, 2: _forsworn; ... forsworn;_] Theobald. _forsworn? ... forsworn?_ Ff. 7: _sweet-suggesting_] _sweet suggestion,_ Pope. _if thou hast_] _if I have_ Warburton. 16: _soul-confirming_] _soul-confirmed_ Pope. 21: _thus_] _this_ Theobald. _by_] F1. _but_ F2 F3 F4. 24: _most_] _more_ Steevens. _in_] _to_ Collier MS. 35: _counsel_] _counsaile_ F1 F2. _councel_ F3. _council_ F4. 37: _pretended_] _intended_ Johnson conj. 43: _this_] F1. _his_ F2 F3 F4. SCENE VII. _Verona. JULIA'S house._ _Enter JULIA and LUCETTA._ _Jul._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engraved, To lesson me; and tell me some good mean, 5 How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. _Luc._ Alas, the way is wearisome and long! _Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 10 Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. _Luc._ Better forbear till Proteus make return. _Jul._ O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? 15 Pity the dearth that I have pined in, By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20 _Luc._ I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. _Jul._ The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, 25 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; 30 And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course: I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, 35 Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. _Luc._ But in what habit will you go along? _Jul._ Not like a woman; for I would prevent 40 The loose encounters of lascivious men: Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. _Luc._ Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. _Jul._ No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings 45 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. _Luc._ What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? _Jul._ That fits as well as, 'Tell me, good my lord, 50 What compass will you wear your farthingale?' Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. _Luc._ You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. _Jul._ Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd. _Luc._ A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, 55 Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. _Jul._ Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 60 I fear me, it will make me scandalized. _Luc._ If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. _Jul._ Nay, that I will not. _Luc._ Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, 65 No matter who's displeased when you are gone: I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. _Jul._ That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, 70 Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. _Luc._ All these are servants to deceitful men. _Jul._ Base men, that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth: His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; 75 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; His tears pure messengers sent from his heart; His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. _Luc._ Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him! _Jul._ Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong, 80 To bear a hard opinion of his truth: Only deserve my love by loving him; And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of, To furnish me upon my longing journey. 85 All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently! I am impatient of my tarriance. [_Exeunt._ 90 Notes: II, 7. SCENE VII.] SCENE X. Pope. 13: _perfection_] F1 F2 F4. _perfections_ F3. 18: _inly_] F1 F2. _inchly_ F3 F4. 22: _extreme_] _extremest_ Pope. 32: _wild_] _wide_ Collier MS. 47: _fantastic_] _fantantastique_ F2. 52: _likest_] Pope. _likes_ Ff. 67: _withal_] _with all_ F1 F4. _withall_ F2 F3. 70: _of infinite_] F1. _as infinite_ F2 F3 F4. _of the infinite_ Malone. 85: _longing_] _loving_ Collier MS. 89: _to it_] _do it_ Warburton. ACT III. SCENE I. _Milan. Ante-room in the DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS._ _Duke._ Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [_Exit Thu._ Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me? _Pro._ My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal; 5 But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 10 This night intends to steal away your daughter: Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol'n away from you, 15 It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 20 Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. _Duke._ Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; Which to requite, command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep; 25 And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court: But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err, And so, unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd, 30 I gave him gentle looks; thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 35 The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be convey'd away. _Pro._ Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend, And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 40 For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; 45 For, love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. _Duke._ Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. _Pro._ Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. [_Exit._ 50 _Enter VALENTINE._ _Duke._ Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? _Val._ Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. _Duke._ Be they of much import? 55 _Val._ The tenour of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. _Duke._ Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 60 'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. _Val._ I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities 65 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him? _Duke._ No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, 70 Nor fearing me as if I were her father: And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty, 75 I now am full resolved to take a wife, And turn her out to who will take her in: Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not. _Val._ What would your Grace have me to do in this? 80 _Duke._ There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence: Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,-- For long agone I have forgot to court; 85 Besides, the fashion of the time is changed,-- How and which way I may bestow myself, To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. _Val._ Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: Dumb jewels often in their silent kind 90 More than quick words do move a woman's mind. _Duke._ But she did scorn a present that I sent her. _Val._ A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o'er; For scorn at first makes afterlove the more. 95 If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 100 For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 105 _Duke._ But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth; And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. _Val._ Why, then, I would resort to her by night. 110 _Duke._ Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. _Val._ What lets but one may enter at her window? _Duke._ Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it 115 Without apparent hazard of his life. _Val._ Why, then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. 120 _Duke._ Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. _Val._ When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that. _Duke._ This very night; for Love is like a child, That longs for every thing that he can come by. 125 _Val._ By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder. _Duke._ But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: How shall I best convey the ladder thither? _Val._ It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. 130 _Duke._ A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? _Val._ Ay, my good lord. _Duke._ Then let me see thy cloak: I'll get me one of such another length. _Val._ Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. _Duke._ How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? 135 I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [_Reads._ 'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 140 And slaves they are to me, that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them; While I, their king, that thither them importune, 145 Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them, Because myself do want my servants' fortune: I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would be. What's here? 150 'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.' 'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaethon,--for thou art Merops' son,-- Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world? 155 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? Go, base intruder! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates; And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence: 160 Thank me for this more than for all the favours, Which all too much I have bestow'd on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 165 By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. [_Exit._ _Val._ And why not death rather than living torment? 170 To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? 175 Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 180 There is no day for me to look upon: She is my essence; and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: 185 Tarry I here, I but attend on death: But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. _Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE._ _Pro._ Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. _Launce._ Soho, soho! _Pro._ What seest thou? 190 _Launce._ Him we go to find: there's not a hair on's head but 'tis a Valentine. _Pro._ Valentine? _Val._ No. _Pro._ Who then? his spirit? 195 _Val._ Neither. _Pro._ What then? _Val._ Nothing. _Launce._ Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? _Pro._ Who wouldst thou strike? 200 _Launce._ Nothing. _Pro._ Villain, forbear. _Launce._ Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,-- _Pro._ Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word. _Val._ My ears are stopt, and cannot hear good news, 205 So much of bad already hath possess'd them. _Pro._ Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. _Val._ Is Silvia dead? _Pro._ No, Valentine. 210 _Val._ No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? _Pro._ No, Valentine. _Val._ No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news? 215 _Launce._ Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. _Pro._ That thou art banished--O, that's the news!-- From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. _Val._ O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 220 Doth Silvia know that I am banished? _Pro._ Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom-- Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force-- A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd; 225 With them, upon her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them As if but now they waxed pale for woe: But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 230 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, 235 With many bitter threats of biding there. _Val._ No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st Have some malignant power upon my life: If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 240 _Pro._ Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament'st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 245 Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 250 The time now serves not to expostulate: Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate; And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, 255 Regard thy danger, and along with me! _Val._ I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste, and meet me at the North-gate. _Pro._ Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. _Val._ O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! 260 [_Exeunt Val. and Pro._ _Launce._ I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who 'tis I love; and yet 265 'tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel,-- which is much in a bare Christian. 270 [_Pulling out a paper._] Here is the cate-log of her condition. 'Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item: She can milk;' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. 275 _Enter SPEED._ _Speed._ How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership? _Launce._ With my master's ship? why, it is at sea. _Speed._ Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper? 280 _Launce._ The blackest news that ever thou heardest. _Speed._ Why, man, how black? _Launce._ Why, as black as ink. _Speed._ Let me read them. _Launce._ Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read. 285 _Speed._ Thou liest; I can. _Launce._ I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee? _Speed._ Marry, the son of my grandfather. _Launce._ O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read. 290 _Speed._ Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. _Launce._ There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! _Speed_ [_reads_]. 'Imprimis: She can milk.' _Launce._ Ay, that she can. _Speed._ 'Item: She brews good ale.' 295 _Launce._ And thereof comes the proverb: 'Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.' _Speed._ 'Item: She can sew.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, Can she so? _Speed._ 'Item: She can knit.' 300 _Launce._ What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock? _Speed._ 'Item: She can wash and scour.' _Launce._ A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured. 305 _Speed._ 'Item: She can spin.' _Launce._ Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; 310 that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. _Speed._ 'Here follow her vices.' _Launce._ Close at the heels of her virtues. _Speed._ 'Item: She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect 315 of her breath.' _Launce._ Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.' _Launce._ That makes amends for her sour breath. 320 _Speed._ 'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.' _Launce._ It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. _Speed._ 'Item: She is slow in words.' _Launce._ O villain, that set this down among her vices! 325 To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray thee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue. _Speed._ 'Item: She is proud.' _Launce._ Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. 330 _Speed._ 'Item: She hath no teeth.' _Launce._ I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. _Speed._ 'Item: She is curst.' _Launce._ Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 335 _Speed._ 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.' _Launce._ If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised. _Speed._ 'Item: She is too liberal.' _Launce._ Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down 340 she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.' 345 _Launce._ Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit,'-- _Launce._ More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. 350 The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What's next? _Speed._ 'And more faults than hairs,'-- _Launce._ That's monstrous: O, that that were out! 355 _Speed._ 'And more wealth than faults.' _Launce._ Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have her: and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,-- _Speed._ What then? 360 _Launce._ Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate? _Speed._ For me? _Launce._ For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. 365 _Speed._ And must I go to him? _Launce._ Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long, that going will scarce serve the turn. _Speed._ Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love-letters! [_Exit._ 370 _Launce._ Now will he be swinged for reading my letter,--an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. [_Exit._ Notes: III, 1. Ante-room] Capell. 2: [Exit Thu.] Rowe. 7: _as_] F1 F3 F4. _as as_ F2. 21: _Being_] _If_ Pope. _unprevented_] F1 F2. _unprepared_ F3 F4. 32: _hast_] _hath_ Pope. 33: _that_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 50: [Exit] Rowe. Enter Valentine.] om. F1. [Enter. F2 F3 F4. 51: SCENE II. Pope. _whither_] F2. _whether_ F1 (and elsewhere). 56: _tenour_] _tenure_ Ff. 72: _may I_] _I may_ Hanmer. 78: _dower_] _dowre_ Ff. _dowry_ Hanmer. 81: _in Verona_] Ff. _sir, in Milan_ Pope. _in Milano_ Collier MS. _of Verona_ Halliwell. See note (VII). 83: _nought_] F2 F3 F4. _naught_ F1. 89: _respect_] F1 F2 F3. _respects_ F4. 92: _that I sent her_] _that I sent, sir_ Steevens conj. 93: _contents_] _content_ Mason conj. 98: _'tis_] F1 F3 F4. _'its_ F2. 99: _For why, the_] _For why the_ Dyce. 105: _with_] F1 F3 F4. _this_ F2. 139: [Reads] Rowe. 149: _would be_] F2 F3 F4. _should be_ F1. 151: _I will_] F1 F2 F3. _will I_ F4. 154: _car_] _cat_ F3 F4. 169: [Exit] F2. 170: SCENE III. Pope. Enter PRO. and LAUNCE] F2. 189: _Soho, soho!_] _So-hough, Soa hough--_ F1. 200: _Who_] F1. _Whom_ F2 F3 F4. 204: _Sirrah_] om. Pope. 216: _vanished_] _vanish'd_ Pope. 217: _banished--O that's_] _banish'd: oh, that's_ Ff. _banish'd--O, that is_ Pope. _banished--_ Val. _Oh, that's the news!_ Pro. _From hence, ... _ Edd. conj. 260: [Exeunt Val. and Pro.] Exeunt. F2. 261: SCENE VI. Pope, by misprint for IV. 263: _one knave_] _one kind of knave_ Hanmer. _one kind_ Warburton. _one in love_ Staunton conj. 270: [Pulling out a paper] Rowe. 271: _cate-log_] _cat-log_ Pope. _condition_] F1 F2 F3. _conditions_ F4. 274: _milk;' look you,_] _milk, look you;_' Capell. 276: Enter Speed] F2. 278: _master's ship_] Theobald. _Mastership_ Ff. 293, 294: om. Farmer conj. 293: _Imprimis_] _Item_ Halliwell. 304: _need not be_] F1. _need not to be_ F2 F3 F4. 313: _follow_] F1. _followes_ F2. _follows_ F3 F4. 315: _kissed_] Rowe. om. Ff. 322: _sleep_] _slip_ Collier MS. 325: _O ... this_] _O villaine, that set this_ F1. _O villainy, that set_ F2 F3. _Oh villain! that set_ F4. _O villainy that set this_ Malone. 342: _cannot I_] _I cannot_ Steevens. 344: _hair_] F1. _hairs_ F2 F3 F4. 347: _that last_] F1. (in some copies only, according to Malone.) _that_ F2 F3 F4. 350: _It may be; I'll prove it_] Theobald. _It may be I'll prove it_ Ff. 369: _of_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4. 370: [Exit] Capell. 373: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff. SCENE II. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE and THURIO._ _Duke._ Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you, Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight. _Thu._ Since his exile she hath despised me most. Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. 5 _Duke._ This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. 10 _Enter PROTEUS._ How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman, According to our proclamation, gone? _Pro._ Gone, my good lord. _Duke._ My daughter takes his going grievously. _Pro._ A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 15 _Duke._ So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee-- For thou hast shown some sign of good desert-- Makes me the better to confer with thee. _Pro._ Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace 20 Let me not live to look upon your Grace. _Duke._ Thou know'st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. _Pro._ I do, my lord. _Duke._ And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 25 How she opposes her against my will. _Pro._ She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. _Duke._ Ay, and perversely she persevers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? 30 _Pro._ The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. _Duke._ Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate. _Pro._ Ay, if his enemy deliver it: 35 Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. _Duke._ Then you must undertake to slander him. _Pro._ And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do: 'Tis an ill office for a gentleman, 40 Especially against his very friend. _Duke._ Where your good word cannot advantage him, Your slander never can endamage him; Therefore the office is indifferent, Being entreated to it by your friend. 45 _Pro._ You have prevail'd, my lord: if I can do it By ought that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 50 _Thu._ Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me; Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. 55 _Duke._ And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, Because we know, on Valentine's report, You are already Love's firm votary, And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access 60 Where you with Silvia may confer at large; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you; Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65 _Pro._ As much as I can do, I will effect: But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 70 _Duke._ Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. _Pro._ Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears 75 Moist it again; and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews; Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 80 Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber-window With some sweet concert; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump: the night's dead silence 85 Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. _Duke._ This discipline shows thou hast been in love. _Thu._ And thy advice this night I'll put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 90 Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. _Duke._ About it, gentlemen! 95 _Pro._ We'll wait upon your Grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. _Duke._ Even now about it! I will pardon you. [_Exeunt._ Notes: III, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE V. Pope. 14: _grievously._] _grievously?_ F1. (in some copies only, according to Malone). _heavily?_ F2 F3. _heavily._ F4. 18: _some_] _sure_ Collier MS. 19: _better_] _bolder_ Capell conj. 20: _loyal_] F1 F3 F4. _royall_ F2. 21: _your_] F1 F3 F4. _you_ F2. _Grace_] _face_ Anon. conj. 25: _I think_] F1. _I doe think_ F2 F3 F4. 28: _persevers_] F1 F2. _perseveres_ F3 F4. 37: _esteemeth_] F1. _esteemes_ F2. _esteems_ F3 F4. 49: _weed_] Ff. _wean_ Rowe. 55: _worth_] _word_ Capell conj. 64: _Where_] _When_ Collier MS. 71, 72: _Ay, Much_] Capell. _I, much_ Ff. _Much_ Pope. 76: _line_] _lines_ S. Verges conj. 77: _such_] _strict_ Collier MS. _love's_ S. Verges conj. Malone suggests that a line has been lost to this purport: _'As her obdurate heart may penetrate.'_ 81: _to_] F1. _and_ F2 F3 F4. 84: _concert_] Hanmer. _consort_ Ff. 86: _sweet-complaining_] Capell. _sweet complaining_ Ff. 94: _advice_] F2 F3 F4. _advise_ F1. ACT IV. SCENE I. _The frontiers of Mantua. A forest._ _Enter certain _Outlaws_._ _First Out._ Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. _Sec. Out._ If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. _Enter VALENTINE and SPEED._ _Third Out._ Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye: If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you. _Speed._ Sir, we are undone; these are the villains 5 That all the travellers do fear so much. _Val._ My friends,-- _First Out._ That's not so, sir: we are your enemies. _Sec. Out._ Peace! we'll hear him. _Third Out._ Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man. 10 _Val._ Then know that I have little wealth to lose: A man I am cross'd with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. 15 _Sec. Out._ Whither travel you? _Val._ To Verona. _First Out._ Whence came you? _Val._ From Milan. _Third Out._ Have you long sojourned there? 20 _Val._ Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd, If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. _First Out._ What, were you banish'd thence? _Val._ I was. _Sec. Out._ For what offence? 25 _Val._ For that which now torments me to rehearse: I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent; But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. _First Out._ Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. 30 But were you banish'd for so small a fault? _Val._ I was, and held me glad of such a doom. _Sec. Out._ Have you the tongues? _Val._ My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. 35 _Third Out._ By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction! _First Out._ We'll have him. Sirs, a word. _Speed._ Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery. 40 _Val._ Peace, villain! _Sec. Out._ Tell us this: have you any thing to take to? _Val._ Nothing but my fortune. _Third Out._ Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth 45 Thrust from the company of awful men: Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the duke. _Sec. Out._ And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 50 Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. _First Out._ And I for such like petty crimes as these. But to the purpose,--for we cite our faults, That they may hold excused our lawless lives; And partly, seeing you are beautified 55 With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want,-- _Sec. Out._ Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you: 60 Are you content to be our general? To make a virtue of necessity, And live, as we do, in this wilderness? _Third Out._ What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort? Say ay, and be the captain of us all: 65 We'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. _First Out._ But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. _Sec. Out._ Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. _Val._ I take your offer, and will live with you, 70 Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. _Third Out._ No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews, And show thee all the treasure we have got; 75 Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [_Exeunt._ Notes: IV, 1. SCENE I. The frontiers ... forest.] Capell. A forest. Rowe. A forest leading towards Mantua. Warburton. 2: _shrink_] _shrinkd_ F2. 4: _sit_] F1 F2. _sir_ F3 F4. 5: _Sir_] _O sir_ Capell. 6: _do_] om. Pope, who prints lines 5 and 6 as prose. 9: _Peace!_] _Peace, peace!_ Capell. 11: _little wealth_] F1. _little_ F2 F3 F4. _little left_ Hanmer. 18: _Whence_] _And whence_ Capell, who reads 16-20 as two lines ending _came you? ... there?_ 35: _ I often had been_] F2. _I often had been often_ F1. _often had been_ (om. _I_) F3 F4. _I had been often_ Collier. 39, 40: _it's ... thievery_] Printed as a verse in Ff. _It is a kind of honourable thievery_ Steevens. 42: _thing_] F1. _things_ F2 F3 F4. 46: _awful_] _lawful_ Heath conj. 49: _An heir, and near allied_] Theobald. _And heire and Neece, allide_ F1 F2. _An heir, and Neice allide_ F3. _An Heir, and Neece alli'd_ F4. 51: _Who_] _Whom_ Pope. 60: _Therefore_] F1 F2. _There_ F3 F4. 63: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 74: _crews_] F4. _crewes_ F1 F2 F3. _cave_ Collier MS. _caves_ Singer. _crew_ Delius conj. _cruives_ Bullock conj. 76: _all_] _shall_ Pope. SCENE II. _Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S chamber._ _Enter PROTEUS._ _Pro._ Already have I been false to Valentine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer: But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 5 To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn 10 In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved: And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 15 But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. _Enter THURIO and _Musicians_._ _Thu._ How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us? _Pro._ Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. 20 _Tim._ Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. _Pro._ Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. _Thu._ Who? Silvia? _Pro._ Ay, Silvia; for your sake. _Thu._ I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. 25 _Enter, at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes._ _Host._ Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly: I pray you, why is it? _Jul._ Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. _Host._ Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that 30 you asked for. _Jul._ But shall I hear him speak? _Host._ Ay, that you shall. _Jul._ That will be music. [_Music plays._ _Host._ Hark, hark! 35 _Jul._ Is he among these? _Host._ Ay: but, peace! let's hear 'em. SONG. Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; 40 The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, 45 To help him of his blindness, And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing 50 Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. _Host._ How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not. _Jul._ You mistake; the musician likes me not. 55 _Host._ Why, my pretty youth? _Jul._ He plays false, father. _Host._ How? out of tune on the strings? _Jul._ Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. 60 _Host._ You have a quick ear. _Jul._ Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. _Host._ I perceive you delight not in music. _Jul._ Not a whit, when it jars so. 65 _Host._ Hark, what fine change is in the music! _Jul._ Ay, that change is the spite. _Host._ You would have them always play but one thing? _Jul._ I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 70 Often resort unto this gentlewoman? _Host._ I tell you what Launce, his man, told me,--he loved her out of all nick. _Jul._ Where is Launce? _Host._ Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his 75 master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady. _Jul._ Peace! stand aside: the company parts. _Pro._ Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead, That you shall say my cunning drift excels. _Thu._ Where meet we? _Pro._ At Saint Gregory's well. _Thu._ Farewell. 80 [_Exeunt Thu. and Musicians._ _Enter SILVIA above._ _Pro._ Madam, good even to your ladyship. _Sil._ I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? _Pro._ One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 85 _Sil._ Sir Proteus, as I take it. _Pro._ Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. _Sil._ What's your will? _Pro._ That I may compass yours. _Sil._ You have your wish; my will is even this: That presently you hie you home to bed. 90 Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived so many with thy vows? Return, return, and make thy love amends. 95 For me,--by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request, That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit; And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 100 _Pro._ I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; But she is dead. _Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Twere false, if I should speak it; For I am sure she is not buried. _Sil._ Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, 105 I am betroth'd: and art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy? _Pro._ I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. _Sil._ And so suppose am I; for in his grave Assure thyself my love is buried. 110 _Pro._ Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. _Sil._ Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence; Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. _Jul._ [_Aside_] He heard not that. _Pro._ Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 115 Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep: For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 120 And to your shadow will I make true love. _Jul._ [_Aside_] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it, And make it but a shadow, as I am. _Sil._ I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well 125 To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it: And so, good rest. _Pro._ As wretches have o'ernight That wait for execution in the morn. [_Exeunt Pro. and Sil. severally._ _Jul._ Host, will you go? 130 _Host._ By my halidom, I was fast asleep. _Jul._ Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? _Host._ Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day. _Jul._ Not so; but it hath been the longest night 135 That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. [_Exeunt._ Notes: IV, 2. SCENE II. Outside ... palace ...] An open place, ... Warburton. Court of the palace. Capell. 1: _have I_] _I've_ Pope. 15: _and_] om. F3 F4. 18: Musicians.] Rowe. Musitian. Ff. at the beginning of the scene. 23: _Who_] F1. Whom F2 F3 F4. 25: _tune_] F1. _turne_ F2. _turn_ F3 F4. 26: at a distance] Capell. _allycholly_] _melancholy_ Pope. 27: _I pray you, why is it_] F1. _I pray you what is it_ F2 F3. _I pray what is it?_ F4. 34: [Music plays] Capell. 40: _is she_] _as free_ Collier MS. 50: _excels_] _exceeds_ S. Walker conj. 53: SCENE III. Pope. 53, 54: _are you ... before?_] _you are ... before_ Heath conj. 68: _You would_] _you would, then,_ Malone. _you would not_ Collier MS. 70, 71: Printed as prose by Capell. 72-74: Printed as verse in Ff. _I tell ... He lov'd ..._ 78: _fear not you_] F1. _fear not_ F2 F3 F4. 80: [Exeunt Thu. and Musicians.] Rowe. 81: SCENE IV. Pope. Enter SILVIA above] Rowe. om. Ff. 85: _You would_] Ff. _You'd_ Pope. 88: _What's_] _What is_ Pope. 89: _even_] F1. _ever_ F2 F3 F4. 102: [Aside] Pope. 105: _thyself_] _even thyself_ Hanmer. 109: _his_] F2 F3 F4. _her_ F1. 112: _hers_] F1 F2. _her_ F3 F4. 114: [Aside] Pope. 115: _if_] _if that_ Warburton. 115, 116: _obdurate, Vouchsafe_] _Obdurate, O, vouchsafe_ Hanmer. 116: _for my love_] om. Hanmer. 122: [Aside] Pope. 125: _since your falsehood shall_] _since you're false, it shall_ Johnson conj. 129: [Exeunt ... severally] om. F1. [Exeunt. F2. 136: _heaviest_] _heavy one_ Pope. SCENE III. _The same._ _Enter EGLAMOUR._ _Egl._ This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind: There's some great matter she'ld employ me in. Madam, madam! _Enter SILVIA above._ _Sil._ Who calls? _Egl._ Your servant and your friend; One that attends your ladyship's command. 5 _Sil._ Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow. _Egl._ As many, worthy lady, to yourself: According to your ladyship's impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. 10 _Sil._ O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman,-- Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not,-- Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd: Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banish'd Valentine; 15 Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, 20 Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, 25 Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady's grief, And on the justice of my flying hence, To keep me from a most unholy match, 30 Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues. I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company, and go with me: If not, to hide what I have said to thee, 35 That I may venture to depart alone. _Egl._ Madam, I pity much your grievances; Which since I know they virtuously are placed, I give consent to go along with you; Recking as little what betideth me 40 As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? _Sil._ This evening coming. _Egl._ Where shall I meet you? _Sil._ At Friar Patrick's cell, Where I intend holy confession. _Egl._ I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, 45 gentle lady. _Sil._ Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. [_Exeunt severally._ Notes: IV, 3. SCENE III.] SCENE V. Pope. Dyce makes no new scene here. See note (VIII). 4: _Madam, madam!_] _Madam!_ Hanmer. 13: _Valiant, wise_] _Valiant and wise_ Pope. _Wise, valiant_ Anon. conj. A monosyllable lost before _valiant._ S. Walker conj. 17: _abhors_] Hanmer. _abhor'd_ F1 F2 F3. _abhorr'd_ F4. 19: _ever_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _near_] _near unto_ Pope. 31: _rewards_] Ff. _reward_ Pope. 37, 38: _grievances; Which_] _grievances, And the most true affections that you bear; Which_ Collier MS. 40: _Recking_] Pope. _Wreaking_ F1. 42: _evening coming_] _coming evening_ Anon. conj. SCENE IV. _The same._ _Enter LAUNCE, with his Dog._ _Launce._ When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it! I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, 'thus I 5 would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher, and steals her capon's leg: O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as 10 one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for't: sure as I live, he had suffered for't: you shall judge. He thrusts 15 me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs, under the duke's table: he had not been there--bless the mark!--a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt him. 'Out with the dog!' says one: 'What cur is that?' says another: 'Whip him out,' says the third: 'Hang 20 him up,' says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: 'Friend,' quoth I, 'you mean to whip the dog?' 'Ay, marry, do I,' quoth he. 'You do him the more wrong,' quoth I; ''twas I did the thing 25 you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, 30 otherwise he had suffered for't. Thou thinkest not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do? when didst thou see me heave up my leg, and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale? 35 didst thou ever see me do such a trick? _Enter PROTEUS and JULIA._ _Pro._ Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well, And will employ thee in some service presently. _Jul._ In what you please: I'll do what I can. _Pro._ I hope thou wilt. [_To Launce_] How now, you whoreson peasant! 40 Where have you been these two days loitering? _Launce._ Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. _Pro._ And what says she to my little jewel? _Launce._ Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells 45 you currish thanks is good enough for such a present. _Pro._ But she received my dog? _Launce._ No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again. _Pro._ What, didst thou offer her this from me? 50 _Launce._ Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the market-place: and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. _Pro._ Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, 55 Or ne'er return again into my sight. Away, I say! stay'st thou to vex me here? [_Exit Launce._ A slave, that still an end turns me to shame! Sebastian, I have entertained thee, Partly that I have need of such a youth, 60 That can with some discretion do my business, For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout; But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth: 65 Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently, and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia: She loved me well deliver'd it to me. _Jul._ It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. 70 She is dead, belike? _Pro._ Not so; I think she lives. _Jul._ Alas! _Pro._ Why dost thou cry, 'alas'? _Jul._ I cannot choose But pity her. _Pro._ Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? _Jul._ Because methinks that she loved you as well 75 As you do love your lady Silvia: She dreams on him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking on it makes me cry, 'alas!' 80 _Pro._ Well, give her that ring, and therewithal This letter. That's her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. [_Exit._ 85 _Jul._ How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertained A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me? 90 Because he loves her, he despiseth me; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will; And now am I, unhappy messenger, 95 To plead for that which I would not obtain, To carry that which I would have refused, To praise his faith which I would have dispraised. I am my master's true-confirmed love; But cannot be true servant to my master, 100 Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly, As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. _Enter SILVIA, attended._ Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. 105 _Sil._ What would you with her, if that I be she? _Jul._ If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on. _Sil._ From whom? _Jul._ From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. 110 _Sil._ O, he sends you for a picture. _Jul._ Ay, madam. _Sil._ Ursula, bring my picture there. Go give your master this: tell him, from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, 115 Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. _Jul._ Madam, please you peruse this letter.-- Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised Deliver'd you a paper that I should not: This is the letter to your ladyship. 120 _Sil._ I pray thee, let me look on that again. _Jul._ It may not be; good madam, pardon me. _Sil._ There, hold! I will not look upon your master's lines: I know they are stuff'd with protestations, 125 And full of new-found oaths; which he will break As easily as I do tear his paper. _Jul._ Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. _Sil._ The more shame for him that he sends it me; For I have heard him say a thousand times 130 His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. _Jul._ She thanks you. _Sil._ What say'st thou? 135 _Jul._ I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much. _Sil._ Dost thou know her? _Jul._ Almost as well as I do know myself: To think upon her woes I do protest 140 That I have wept a hundred several times. _Sil._ Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her. _Jul._ I think she doth; and that's her cause of sorrow. _Sil._ Is she not passing fair? _Jul._ She hath been fairer, madam, than she is: 145 When she did think my master loved her well, She, in my judgement, was as fair as you; But since she did neglect her looking-glass, And threw her sun-expelling mask away, The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks, 150 And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I. _Sil._ How tall was she? _Jul._ About my stature: for, at Pentecost, When all our pageants of delight were play'd, 155 Our youth got me to play the woman's part, And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown; Which served me as fit, by all men's judgements, As if the garment had been made for me: Therefore I know she is about my height. 160 And at that time I made her weep agood, For I did play a lamentable part: Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight; Which I so lively acted with my tears, 165 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and, would I might be dead, If I in thought felt not her very sorrow! _Sil._ She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 170 I weep myself to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse: I give thee this For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lovest her. Farewell. [_Exit Silvia, with attendants._ _Jul._ And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her. 175 A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! I hope my master's suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress' love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture: let me see; I think, 180 If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers: And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 185 If that be all the difference in his love, I'll get me such a colour'd periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass; and so are mine: Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high. What should it be that he respects in her, 190 But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, loved, and adored! 193 And, were there sense in his idolatry, My substance should be statue in thy stead. I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake, That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes, 200 To make my master out of love with thee! [_Exit._ Notes: IV, 4. SCENE IV.] SCENE VI. Pope. Dyce makes no new scene here. See note (VIII). The same.] The same. Silvia's Anti-chamber. Capell. 6: _I was sent_] _I went_ Theobald. 11: _to be a dog indeed_] _to be a dog, to be a dog indeed_ Johnson conj. 20: _the third_] _a third_ Hanmer. 23: _you mean_] _do you mean_ Collier MS. 26: _makes me no more_] _makes no more_ Rowe. 28: _his servant_] _their servant_ Pope. 33: _Silvia_] _Julia_ Warburton. 39: _I'll do_] _Ile do_ F1. _Ile do sir_ F2 F3 F4. _I will do_ Malone. 45: _was_] _is_ Capell conj. 48: _did she_] F1 F2. _she did_ F3 F4. 50: _this_] _this cur_ Collier MS. 51: _the other squirrel_] _the other, Squirrel_ Hanmer. 51-54: Printed as four verses ending _me ... marketplace ... dog ... greater_ Ff. Pope made the change. 52: _hangman boys_] Singer. _Hangmans boyes_ F1. _hangmans boy_ F2 F3 F4. _a hangman boy_ Collier MS. 57: [Exit Launce] om. F1. [Exit. F2 after line 58. 58: _still an end_] _ev'ry day_ Pope. 66: _know thou_] F2 F3 F4. _know thee_ F1. _entertain thee_] F1 F3 F4. _entertaine hee_ F2. 70: _to leave_] F2 F3 F4. _not leave_ F1. _nor love_ Johnson conj. 74: _Wherefore_] _Why_ Hanmer. 75: _that_] _if_ Hanmer. 81: _give her_] _give to her_ Collier MS. _and therewithal_] _and give therewithal_ Theobald. _and give her therewithal_ Capell. 85: [Exit] F2. 95: _am I_] F1 F2. _I am_ F3 F4. 103: Enter SILVIA attended] Malone. Enter SILVIA. Rowe. 104: _Gentlewoman_] Ff. _Lady_ Pope. 110: _From my master,_] _My master; from_ Capell. 111: Capell adds _does he not?_ 115: _forget_] F1 F2. _forgot_ F3 F4. 117: _please you peruse_] _may 't please you to peruse_ Pope. _wilt please you to peruse_ Capell. _so please you to peruse_ Collier MS. 127: _easily_] F1. _easie_ F2 F3 F4. 138: _Dost thou_] _Dost_ Capell conj. 151: _pinch'd_] _pitch'd_ Warburton. _pincte_ Becket conj. _pinc'd_ Id. conj. 158: _judgements_] _judgment_ Capell. 161: _agood_] F2 F3 F4. _a good_ F1. _a-good_ Theobald. 168: _felt_] _feel_ Seward conj. 169: _beholding_] _beholden_ Pope. 172: _my purse_] F1. _a purse_ F2 F3 F4. 174: _Farewell_] om. Pope. [Exit ... attendants] Dyce, after 175. [Exit. F2. om. F1. [Exit S. Singer, after 175. 178: _my mistress'_] _his mistress'_ Hanmer. 185: _auburn_] Rowe. _Aburne_ Ff. 188: _grey as glass_] F1. _grey as grass_ F2 F3 F4. _green as grass_ Collier MS. 189: _mine's as high_] _mine is high_ Pope. 197: _statue_] _sainted_ Hanmer. _statued_ Warburton. _statua_ Reed conj. 200: _your_] _thy_ Hanmer. 201: [Exit.] F2. [Exeunt. F1. ACT V. SCENE I. _Milan. An abbey._ _Enter EGLAMOUR._ _Egl._ The sun begins to gild the western sky; And now it is about the very hour That Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, Unless it be to come before their time; 5 So much they spur their expedition. See where she comes. _Enter SILVIA._ Lady, a happy evening! _Sil._ Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey-wall: I fear I am attended by some spies. 10 _Egl._ Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [_Exeunt._ Notes: V, 1. SCENE I. An abbey.] Capell. Near the Friar's cell. Theobald. 3: _That_] om. Pope. _Friar_] om. Steevens (1793). 12: _we are_] _we're_ Pope. SCENE II. _The same. The DUKE'S palace._ _Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA._ _Thu._ Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? _Pro._ O, sir, I find her milder than she was; And yet she takes exceptions at your person. _Thu._ What, that my leg is too long? _Pro._ No; that it is too little. 5 _Thu._ I'll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder. _Jul._ [_Aside_] But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes. _Thu._ What says she to my face? _Pro._ She says it is a fair one. _Thu._ Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black. 10 _Pro._ But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. _Jul._ [_Aside_] 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes; For I had rather wink than look on them. _Thu._ How likes she my discourse? 15 _Pro._ Ill, when you talk of war. _Thu._ But well, when I discourse of love and peace? _Jul._ [_Aside_] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. _Thu._ What says she to my valour? _Pro._ O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 20 _Jul._ [_Aside_] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. _Thu._ What says she to my birth? _Pro._ That you are well derived. _Jul._ [_Aside_] True; from a gentleman to a fool. _Thu._ Considers she my possessions? 25 _Pro._ O, ay; and pities them. _Thu._ Wherefore? _Jul._ [_Aside_] That such an ass should owe them. _Pro._ That they are out by lease. _Jul._ Here comes the duke. 30 _Enter DUKE._ _Duke._ How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? _Thu._ Not I. _Pro._ Nor I. _Duke._ Saw you my daughter? _Pro._ Neither. _Duke._ Why then, She's fled unto that peasant Valentine; 35 And Eglamour is in her company. 'Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both, As he in penance wander'd through the forest; Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she, But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it; 40 Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not; These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently, and meet with me 45 Upon the rising of the mountain-foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled: Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [_Exit._ _Thu._ Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50 I'll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [_Exit._ _Pro._ And I will follow, more for Silvia's love Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. [_Exit._ _Jul._ And I will follow, more to cross that love 55 Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [_Exit._ Notes: V, 2. SCENE II. The Duke's palace.] Theobald. 7: Jul. [Aside] _But love ..._] Collier (Boswell conj.). Pro. _But love ..._ Ff. 13: Jul. [Aside] _'Tis true ..._] Rowe. Thu. _'Tis true ..._ Ff. 18, 21, 24, 28: [Aside] Capell. 18: _hold_] _do hold_ Capell. 25: _possessions_] _large possessions_ Collier MS. 28: _owe_] Ff. _own_ Pope. 32: _saw Sir_] F4. _saw_ F1. _say saw Sir_ F2 F3. 34, 35: _Why then, She's_] _Why then, she's_ Capell. 35: _that_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 40: _it_] _her_ Collier MS. 47: _toward_] _towards_ Pope. 48: [Exit.] Rowe. 50: _when_] F1. _where_ F2 F3 F4. 51: _on_] _of_ Pope. 52: [Exit.] Capell. 54: [Exit.] Capell. 56: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff. SCENE III. _The frontiers of Mantua. The forest._ _Enter _Outlaws_ with SILVIA._ _First Out._ Come, come, Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. _Sil._ A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. _Sec. Out._ Come, bring her away. 5 _First Out._ Where is the gentleman that was with her? _Third Out._ Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, But Moses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain: we'll follow him that's fled; 10 The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape. _First Out._ Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave: Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. _Sil._ O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [_Exeunt_. 15 Notes: V, 3. SCENE III. The ... Mantua] Capell. The forest.] Pope. 8: _Moses_] Capell. _Moyses_ Ff. 10: _we'll_] om. Pope. 11: [Exeunt. Capell. SCENE IV. _Another part of the forest._ _Enter VALENTINE._ _Val._ How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes 5 Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, And leave no memory of what it was! 10 Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! What halloing and what stir is this to-day? These are my mates, that make their wills their law, Have some unhappy passenger in chase. 15 They love me well; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here? _Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA._ _Pro._ Madam, this service I have done for you, Though you respect not aught your servant doth, 20 To hazard life, and rescue you from him That would have forced your honour and your love; Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 25 _Val._ [_Aside_] How like a dream is this I see and hear! Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. _Sil._ O miserable, unhappy that I am! _Pro._ Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; But by my coming I have made you happy. 30 _Sil._ By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy. _Jul._ [_Aside_] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. _Sil._ Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast, Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 35 O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life's as tender to me as my soul! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. 40 _Pro._ What dangerous action, stood it next to death, Would I not undergo for one calm look! O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they're beloved! _Sil._ When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved. 45 Read over Julia's heart, thy first, best love, For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Descended into perjury, to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two, 50 And that's far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith which is too much by one: Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! _Pro._ In love Who respects friend? _Sil._ All men but Proteus. _Pro._ Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 55 Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye. _Sil._ O heaven! _Pro._ I'll force thee yield to my desire. _Val._ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, 60 Thou friend of an ill fashion! _Pro._ Valentine! _Val._ Thou common friend, that's without faith or love, For such is a friend now; treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say 65 I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 70 The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! _Pro._ My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 75 I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer As e'er I did commit. _Val._ Then I am paid; And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 80 By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased: And, that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. _Jul._ O me unhappy! [_Swoons._ _Pro._ Look to the boy. 85 _Val._ Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what's the matter? Look up; speak. _Jul._ O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done. 90 _Pro._ Where is that ring, boy? _Jul._ Here 'tis; this is it. _Pro._ How! let me see: Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. _Jul._ O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook: This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 95 _Pro._ But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart I gave this unto Julia. _Jul._ And Julia herself did give it me; And Julia herself hath brought it hither. _Pro._ How! Julia! 100 _Jul._ Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush! Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 105 Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love: It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, Women to change their shapes than men their minds. _Pro._ Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven, were man 110 But constant, he were perfect! That one error Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins: Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye? 115 _Val._ Come, come, a hand from either: Let me be blest to make this happy close; 'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. _Pro._ Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever. _Jul._ And I mine. 120 _Enter _Outlaws_, with DUKE and THURIO._ _Outlaws._ A prize, a prize, a prize! _Val._ Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke. Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. _Duke._ Sir Valentine! _Thu._ Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine. 125 _Val._ Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; Come not within the measure of my wrath; Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands: Take but possession of her with a touch: 130 I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. _Thu._ Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I: I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not: I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135 _Duke._ The more degenerate and base art thou, To make such means for her as thou hast done, And leave her on such slight conditions. Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140 And think thee worthy of an empress' love: Know, then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrival'd merit, To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, 145 Thou art a gentleman, and well derived; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. _Val._ I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy. I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake, To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 150 _Duke._ I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be. _Val._ These banish'd men that I have kept withal Are men endued with worthy qualities: Forgive them what they have committed here, And let them be recall'd from their exile: 155 They are reformed, civil, full of good, And fit for great employment, worthy lord. _Duke._ Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee: Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts. Come, let us go: we will include all jars 160 With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. _Val._ And, as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord? _Duke._ I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. 165 _Val._ I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. _Duke._ What mean you by that saying? _Val._ Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along, That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear 170 The story of your loves discovered: That done, our day of marriage shall be yours; One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._ Notes: V, 4. SCENE IV. Another ... forest.] Capell. The outlaw's cave in the forest. Theobald. 2: _This shadowy desert,_] _These shadowy, desert,_ Collier MS. 8: _so_] _too_ Collier MS. 14: _are my_] _my rude_ Collier MS. 18: [Steps aside. Johnson. 19: _I have_] F1 F2 F3. _have I_ F4. _having_ Collier MS. 25: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope. 26, 32: [Aside] Theobald. 26: _is this I see and hear!_] Theobald. _is this? I see and hear:_ Ff. 43: _and still approved_] _for ever prov'd_ Pope. 49: _to love me_] F1. _to deceive me_ F2 F3 F4. 57: _woo_] _wooe_ F1. _move_ F2 F3 F4. 58: _ye_] Ff. _you_ Warburton. 63: _treacherous man_] F1. _Thou treacherous man_ F2. _Though treacherous man_ F3. _Tho treacherous man_ F4. 65: _now_] om. Pope. 67: _trusted now, when one's_] F2 F3 F4. _trusted, when one's_ F1. _trusted, when one's own_ Johnson. _trusted now, when the_ Pope. 69: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope. 71: _O time most accurst_] _O time accurst_ Hanmer. _O time most curst_ Johnson. _O spite accurst_ S. Verges conj. 72: _all foes that a friend_] _all my foes a friend_ Collier MS. 73: _confounds_] _confound_ Rowe. _My ... confounds me_] _My shame and desperate guilt at once confound me_ Collier MS. 82, 83: Blackstone proposes to transfer these lines to the end of Thurio's speech, line 135. 84: [Swoons.] Pope. 86-90: Printed by Capell as four verses ending _matter ... me ... Silvia ... done._ 86: _what's_] _what is_ Capell. 88: _to deliver_] _Deliver_ Steevens conj. 92: _see_] _see it_ Steevens conj. suggesting that lines 92-97 should end at _ring ... sir ... sent ... this?_ (om. _ring_) _... Julia._ 93: _Why, this is_] _This is_ Pope. _Why, 'tis_ S. Verges conj. 96: _But_] om. Pope. 102: _'em_] _them_ Capell. 103: _root_] _root on't_ Hanmer. 112: _all the sins_] _all th' sins_ Ff. _all sins_ Pope. 118: _be long_] _long be_ Pope. 120: _And I mine_] _And I have mine_ Steevens (Ritson conj.). [embracing. Capell. 121: SCENE V. Pope. 122: _Forbear, forbear, I say!_] _Forbear, I say!_ Capell. _Forbear, forbear!_ Pope. 124: _Banished_] _The banish'd_ Pope. 129: _Verona shall not hold_] _Milan shall not behold_ Theobald. _And Milan shall not hold_ Hanmer. _Milano shall not hold_ Collier MS. See note (VII). 143: _again,_] _again._ Steevens (Tyrwhitt conj.). 144: _unrival'd_] F1. _arrival'd_ F2 F3 F4. 160: _include_] _conclude_ Hanmer. 161: _rare_] F1. _all_ F2 F3 F4. 164: _page_] _stripling page_ Collier MS. 167: _saying?_] _saying, Valentine?_ Collier MS. 171: _loves discovered_] _love discovered_ Pope. _love's discoverer_ Collier MS. 172: _That done, our ... yours_] _Our day of marriage shall be yours no less_ Collier MS. NOTES. NOTE I. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. We have followed Steevens and the later editors in reading 'Proteus' for 'Protheus'; for though the latter form is invariably used in the Folios, and was, in all probability, what Shakespeare wrote, yet in choosing the name he doubtless meant to compare the fickle mind of the lover with the changeable form of the god. We have written 'Panthino,' not 'Panthion,' because the authority of the first Folio preponderates in favour of the former, in itself the more probable form of an Italian proper name. 'Panthion' occurs in F1, among 'the names of all the actors,' and in a stage direction at the beginning of Act II Sc. 2, but never in the text. 'Panthino' is found twice in the text, and once in a stage direction at the beginning of Act I. Sc. 3. The blunder 'Panthmo,' I. 3. 76, which is the reading of F1, shows that the original MS. had 'Panthino,' not 'Panthion.' NOTE II. I. 1. 28 sqq. Mr Sidney Walker (_Criticisms on Shakespeare_, III. p. 9) says we ought 'perhaps' to read 'No, I will not, for it boots not.' Doubtless he meant also to re-arrange the following lines, and so get rid of the Alexandrine at 30; thus: '_Val._ No, I will not, for it boots not. _Pro._ What? _Val._ To be In love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks With heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth,' &c. NOTE III. I. 2. 53. _What a fool is she._ The first Folio reads 'What 'foole is she,' doubtless to indicate an ellipsis of the indefinite article, which, for the sake of the metre, was to be slurred over in pronunciation. As we have not followed the Folio in reading _th'_ or _th_ for _the_ before a consonant, so we have thought it best to insert here the omitted letter _a_, especially as the use of the apostrophe is by modern custom much more restricted than it was in the Folio. For example, we find _'Save for God save_ (_Tempest_, II. 1. 162), and _at 'nostrils for at's nostrils_ or _at the nostrils_ (_Id._ II. 2. 60). NOTE IV. II. 1. 68, 69. This passage is corrupt. The usual explanation, which satisfies Delius, is inadmissible, because Valentine would certainly not appear, like the Knight of La Mancha, without his hose. A rhyming couplet was probably what the author intended. Many conjectures might be made, as for example: 'For he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; And you, being in love, cannot see to beyond your nose.' Or, 'to put spectacles on your nose.' Or possibly, 'to put on your shoes,' the point of which remark Valentine's disordered dress might make clear to the audience. Rosalind, when enumerating the marks of a man in love, mentions the untied shoe as well as the ungartered hose, _As You Like It_, Act III. Sc. 2. The same misprint, 'hose' for 'shoes,' occurs in the first edition of Greene's _Groatsworth of Wit_. See Mr Dyce's preface to his edition of Greene's _Dramatic Works_, p. xxviii. NOTE V. II. 4. 7, 95, 111. As Speed after line 7 does not say a word during the whole of this long scene, we have sent him off the stage. It is not likely that the clown would be kept on as a mute bystander, especially when he had to appear in the following scene. The Folios give line 110 to Thurio, who, if the reading be right, must have quitted the stage during the scene. The most probable time for this would be on Proteus' entrance, line 95. Mr Dyce however argues that 'Thurio, after what the Duke, in the presence of Silvia, had said to him about welcoming Proteus, would hardly run off the moment Proteus appeared.' But Thurio is not held up as a model of courtesy, and he might as well be off the stage as on it, for any welcome he gives to Proteus. Besides, in line 101 Valentine ignores Thurio altogether, who, if he had been present, would not have remained silent under the slight. On the whole, we think that the arrangement we have given is the best, as involving no change in the original reading. The question however is a difficult and doubtful one--indeed, far more difficult and doubtful than it is important, or instructive. NOTE VI. II. 4. 192. Theobald's correction, 'mine eye,' or as Mr Spedding suggests, 'my eye' ('my eie' in the original spelling), is supported by a passage in the _Comedy of Errors_, III. 2. 55: 'It is a fault that springeth from your eye.' If this were not satisfactory, another guess might be hazarded: 'Is it mine _unstaid mind_ or Valentine's praise.' The resemblance of 'mine' and 'mind' in the printer's eye (final d and final e being perpetually mistaken for each other) might cause the omission of the two words. 'Valentine' is found as a dissyllable I. 2. 38. 'Sir Valentine's page, &c.': perhaps also III. 1. 191: 'There's not a hair on 's head but 'tis a Valentine,' and, if Capell's arrangement be right, V. 2. 34. NOTE VII. II. 5. 1, III. 1. 81, and V. 4. 129. We have retained 'Padua' in the first of these passages and 'Verona' in the second and third, because it is impossible that the words can be a mere printer's, or transcriber's, error. These inaccuracies are interesting as showing that Shakespeare had written the whole of the play before he had finally determined where the scene was to be laid. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Sources: The editors' Preface (e-text 23041) discusses the 17th- and 18th-century editions in detail; the newer (19th-century) editions are simply listed by name. The following editions may appear in the Notes. All inset text is quoted from the Preface. Folios: F1 1623; F2 (no date given); F3 1663; F4 1685. "The five plays contained in this volume occur in the first Folio in the same order, and ... were there printed for the first time." Early editions: Rowe 1709 Pope 1715 "Pope was the first to indicate the _place_ of each new scene; as, for instance, _Tempest_, I. 1. 'On a ship at sea.' He also subdivided the scenes as given by the Folios and Rowe, making a fresh scene whenever a new character entered--an arrangement followed by Hanmer, Warburton, and Johnson. For convenience of reference to these editions, we have always recorded the commencement of Pope's scenes." Theobald 1733 Hanmer ("Oxford edition") 1744 Warburton 1747 Johnson 1765 Capell 1768; _also Capell's annotated copy of F2_ Steevens 1773 Malone 1790 Reed 1803 Later editions: Singer, Knight, Cornwall, Collier, Phelps, Halliwell, Dyce, Staunton Errors and inconsistencies: [Text-critical notes] II. 3. 20: _Oh, the dog is me_] [_body text punctuates "Oh! the"_] II. 4. 58: Know] [_body text has "know", not capitalized_] II. 5. 1: Padua] [_body text has "the same", referring back to II. 4 "Milan"_] IV. 4. 95: _am I_] F1 F2. _I am_ F3 F4. [F3 F3] 1786 ---- ********************************************************************** THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AT EBOOK #1523. THE HTML FILE AT: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1523/1523-h/1523-h.htm ********************************************************************** 15868 ---- THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY AND OTHER TALES. BY EDWARD E. HALE, AUTHOR OF "IN HIS NAME," "TEN TIMES ONE IS TEN," "HOW TO DO IT," "WHAT CAREER," ETC., ETC. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1891. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. CONTENTS. THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY THE LAST OF THE FLORIDA A PIECE OF POSSIBLE HISTORY THE SOUTH AMERICAN EDITOR THE OLD AND THE NEW, FACE TO FACE THE DOT AND LINE ALPHABET THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE MY DOUBLE, AND HOW HE UNDID ME THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET CHRISTMAS WAITS IN BOSTON THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. FROM THE INGHAM PAPERS. This story was written in the summer of 1863, as a contribution, however humble, towards the formation of a just and true national sentiment, or sentiment of love to the nation. It was at the time when Mr. Vallandigham had been sent across the border. It was my wish, indeed, that the story might be printed before the autumn elections of that year,--as my "testimony" regarding the principles involved in them,--but circumstances delayed its publication till the December number of the Atlantic appeared. It is wholly a fiction, "founded on fact." The facts on which it is founded are these,--that Aaron Burr sailed down the Mississippi River in 1805, again in 1806, and was tried for treason in 1807. The rest, with one exception to be noticed, is all fictitious. It was my intention that the story should have been published with no author's name, other than that of Captain Frederic Ingham, U.S.N. Whether writing under his name or my own, I have taken no liberties with history other than such as every writer of fiction is privileged to take,--indeed, must take, if fiction is to be written at all. The story having been once published, it passed out of my hands. From that moment it has gradually acquired different accessories, for which I am not responsible. Thus I have heard it said, that at one bureau of the Navy Department they say that Nolan was pardoned, in fact, and returned home to die. At another bureau, I am told, the answer to questions is, that, though it is true that an officer was kept abroad all his life, his name was not Nolan. A venerable friend of mine in Boston, who discredits all tradition, still recollects this "Nolan court-martial." One of the most accurate of my younger friends had noticed Nolan's death in the newspaper, but recollected "that it was in September, and not in August." A lady in Baltimore writes me, I believe in good faith, that Nolan has two widowed sisters residing in that neighborhood. A correspondent of the Philadelphia Despatch believed "the article untrue, as the United States corvette 'Levant' was lost at sea nearly three years since, between San Francisco and San Juan." I may remark that this uncertainty as to the place of her loss rather adds to the probability of her turning up after three years in Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W. A writer in the New Orleans Picayune, in a careful historical paper, explained at length that I had been mistaken all through; that Philip Nolan never went to sea, but to Texas; that there he was shot in battle, March 21, 1801, and by orders from Spain every fifth man of his party was to be shot, had they not died in prison. Fortunately, however, he left his papers and maps, which fell into the hands of a friend of the Picayune's correspondent. This friend proposes to publish them,--and the public will then have, it is to be hoped, the true history of Philip Nolan, the man without a country. With all these continuations, however, I have nothing to do. I can only repeat that my Philip Nolan is pure fiction. I cannot send his scrap-book to my friend who asks for it, because I have it not to send. I remembered, when I was collecting material for my story, that in General Wilkinson's galimatias, which he calls his "Memoirs," is frequent reference to a business partner of his, of the name of Nolan, who, in the very beginning of this century, was killed in Texas. Whenever Wilkinson found himself in rather a deeper bog than usual, he used to justify himself by saying that he could not explain such or such a charge because "the papers referring to it were lost when _Mr. Nolan_ was imprisoned in Texas." Finding this mythical character in the mythical legends of a mythical time, I took the liberty to give him a cousin, rather more mythical, whose adventures should be on the seas. I had the impression that Wilkinson's friend was named Stephen,--and as such I spoke of him in the early editions of this story. But long after this was printed, I found that the New Orleans paper was right in saying that the Texan hero was named Philip Nolan. If I had forgotten him and his name, I can only say that Mr. Jefferson, who did not forget him, abandoned him and his,--when the Spanish Government murdered him and imprisoned his associates for life. I have done my best to repair my fault, and to recall to memory a brave man, by telling the story of his fate, in a book called "Philip Nolan's Friends." To the historical statements in that book the reader is referred. That the Texan Philip Nolan played an important, though forgotten, part in our national history, the reader will understand,--when I say that the terror of the Spanish Government, excited by his adventures, governed all their policy regarding Texas and Louisiana also, till the last territory was no longer their own. If any reader considers the invention of a cousin too great a liberty to take in fiction, I venture to remind him that "'Tis sixty years since"; and that I should have the highest authority in literature even for much greater liberties taken with annals so far removed from our time. A Boston paper, in noticing the story of "My Double," contained in another part of this collection, said it was highly _improbable_. I have always agreed with that critic. I confess I have the same opinion of this story of Philip Nolan. It passes on ships which had no existence, is vouched for by officers who never lived. Its hero is in two or three places at the same time, under a process wholly impossible under any conceivable administration of affairs. When my friend, Mr. W.H. Reed, sent me from City Point, in Virginia, the record of the death of PHILIP NOLAN, a negro from Louisiana, who died in the cause of his country in service in a colored regiment, I felt that he had done something to atone for the imagined guilt of the imagined namesake of his unfortunate god-father. E.E.H. ROXBURY, MASS., March 20, 1886. * * * * * I supposed that very few casual readers of the New York Herald of August 18th observed, in an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the announcement,-- "NOLAN. Died, on board U.S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, PHILIP NOLAN." I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission-House in Mackinaw, waiting for a Lake Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring to the very stubble all the current literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the Herald. My memory for names and people is good, and the reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer of the Levant who reported it had chosen to make it thus:--"Died, May 11th, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY." For it was as "The Man without a Country" that poor Philip Nolan had generally been known by the officers who had him in charge during some fifty years, as, indeed, by all the men who sailed under them. I dare say there is many a man who has taken wine with him once a fortnight, in a three years' cruise, who never knew that his name was "Nolan," or whether the poor wretch had any name at all. There can now be no possible harm in telling this poor creature's story. Reason enough there has been till now, ever since Madison's administration went out in 1817, for very strict secrecy, the secrecy of honor itself, among the gentlemen of the navy who have had Nolan in successive charge. And certainly it speaks well for the _esprit de corps_ of the profession, and the personal honor of its members, that to the press this man's story has been wholly unknown,--and, I think, to the country at large also. I have reason to think, from some investigations I made in the Naval Archives when I was attached to the Bureau of Construction, that every official report relating to him was burned when Ross burned the public buildings at Washington. One of the Tuckers, or possibly one of the Watsons, had Nolan in charge at the end of the war; and when, on returning from his cruise, he reported at Washington to one of the Crowninshields,--who was in the Navy Department when he came home,--he found that the Department ignored the whole business. Whether they really knew nothing about it or whether it was a "_Non mi ricordo_," determined on as a piece of policy, I do not know. But this I do know, that since 1817, and possibly before, no naval officer has mentioned Nolan in his report of a cruise. But, as I say, there is no need for secrecy any longer. And now the poor creature is dead, it seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young Americans of to-day what it is to be A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. * * * * * Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the "Legion of the West," as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, at Fort Massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met, as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow, at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flat-boat, and, in short, fascinated him. For the next year, barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed in this unrequited affection for a politician the time which they devoted to Monongahela, hazard, and high-low-jack. Bourbon, euchre, and poker were still unknown. But one day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came down the river, not as an attorney seeking a place for his office, but as a disguised conqueror. He had defeated I know not how many district-attorneys; he had dined at I know not how many public dinners; he had been heralded in I know not how many Weekly Arguses, and it was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire before him. It was a great day--his arrival--to poor Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort an hour before he sent for him. That evening he asked Nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake or a cotton-wood tree, as he said,--really to seduce him; and by the time the sail was over, Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. What Burr meant to do I know no more than you, dear reader. It is none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catastrophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great treason-trial at Richmond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi Valley, which was farther from us than Puget's Sound is to-day, introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage, and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort Adams, got up, for _spectacles_, a string of court-martials on the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough,--that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march any-whither with any one who would follow him had the order been signed, "By command of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped,--rightly for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty enough, as I say; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that, when the president of the court asked him at the close, whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy,-- "D----n the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!" I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness. He, on his part, had grown up in the West of those days, in the midst of "Spanish plot," "Orleans plot," and all the rest. He had been educated on a plantation where the finest company was a Spanish officer or a French merchant from Orleans. His education, such as it was, had been perfected in commercial expeditions to Vera Cruz, and I think he told me his father once hired an Englishman to be a private tutor for a winter on the plantation. He had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas; and, in a word, to him "United States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by "United States" for all the years since he had been in the army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true to "United States." It was "United States" which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States" had picked you out first as one of her own confidential men of honor that "A. Burr" cared for you a straw more than for the flat-boat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. He never did hear her name but once again. From that moment, September 23, 1807, till the day he died, May 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. For that half-century and more he was a man without a country. Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. If Nolan had compared George Washington to Benedict Arnold, or had cried, "God save King George," Morgan would not have felt worse. He called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say,-- "Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again." Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added,-- "Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there." The Marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court. "Mr. Marshal," continued old Morgan, "see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. The court is adjourned without day." I have always supposed that Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court to Washington City, and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. Certain it is that the President approved them,--certain, that is, if I may believe the men who say they have seen his signature. Before the Nautilus got round from New Orleans to the Northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board the sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a country. The plan then adopted was substantially the same which was necessarily followed ever after. Perhaps it was suggested by the necessity of sending him by water from Fort Adams and Orleans. The Secretary of the Navy--it must have been the first Crowninshield, though he is a man I do not remember--was requested to put Nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far confined there as to make it certain that he never saw or heard of the country. We had few long cruises then, and the navy was very much out of favor; and as almost all of this story is traditional, as I have explained, I do not know certainly what his first cruise was. But the commander to whom he was intrusted,--perhaps it was Tingey or Shaw, though I think it was one of the younger men,--we are all old enough now,--regulated the etiquette and the precautions of the affair, and according to his scheme they were carried out, I suppose, till Nolan died. When I was second officer of the "Intrepid," some thirty years after, I saw the original paper of instructions. I have been sorry ever since that I did not copy the whole of it. It ran, however, much in this way:-- "WASHINGTON (with a date, which have been late in 1807). "SIR,--You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the person of Philip Nolan, late a Lieutenant in the United States Army. "This person on his trial by court-martial expressed with an oath the wish that he might 'never hear of the United States again.' "The Court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. "For the present, the execution of the order is intrusted by the President to this Department. "You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. "You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank, if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his Government. "The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unnecessarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. "But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his country or to see any information regarding it, and you will specially caution all the officers under your command to take care, that, in the various indulgences which may be granted, this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be broken. "It is the intention of the Government that he shall never again see the country which he has disowned. Before the end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give effect to this intention. "Respectfully yours, "W. SOUTHARD, for the Secretary of the Navy." If I had only preserved the whole of this paper, there would be no break in the beginning of my sketch of this story. For Captain Shaw, if it were he, handed it to his successor in the charge, and he to his, and I suppose the commander of the Levant has it to-day as his authority for keeping this man in this mild custody. The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man without a country" was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war,--cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system. He was not permitted to talk with the men, unless an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites: I was one. Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his own state-room,--he always had a state-room,--which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite "Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him "Plain-Buttons," because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army-uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army-button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned. I remember, soon after I joined the navy, I was on shore with some of the older officers from our ship and from the Brandywine, which we had met at Alexandria. We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on donkeys then), some of the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the system which was adopted from the first about his books and other reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back of what was cut out might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which afterwards I had enough and more than enough to do with. I remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English Admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean, Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an officer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a windfall. Among them, as the Devil would order, was the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the "Tempest" from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things so often now, but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began, without a thought of what was coming,-- "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,"-- It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically,-- "This is my own, my native land!" Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on,-- "Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?-- If such there breathe, go, mark him well,"-- By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on,-- "For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self,"-- and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room, "And by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him." That story shows about the time when Nolan's braggadocio must have broken down. At first, they said, he took a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce, affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that; but Phillips said that after he came out of his state-room he never was the same man again. He never read aloud again, unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again. He was always shy afterwards, when I knew him,--very seldom spoke, unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends. He lighted up occasionally,--I remember late in his life hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been suggested to him by one of Fléchier's sermons,--but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man. When Captain Shaw was coming home,--if, as I say, it was Shaw,--rather to the surprise of every body they made one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly a week. The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk, and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home. But after several days the Warren came to the same rendezvous; they exchanged signals; she sent to Phillips and these homeward-bound men letters and papers, and told them she was outward-bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his second cruise. He looked very blank when he was told to get ready to join her. He had known enough of the signs of the sky to know that till that moment he was going "home." But this was a distinct evidence of something he had not thought of, perhaps,--that there was no going home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again. It may have been on that second cruise,--it was once when he was up the Mediterranean,--that Mrs. Graff, the celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him. They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and the officers were very intimate in the English fleet, and there had been great festivities, and our men thought they must give a great ball on board the ship. How they ever did it on board the "Warren" I am sure I do not know. Perhaps it was not the "Warren," or perhaps ladies did not take up so much room as they do now. They wanted to use Nolan's state-room for something, and they hated to do it without asking him to the ball; so the captain said they might ask him, if they would be responsible that he did not talk with the wrong people, "who would give him intelligence." So the dance went on, the finest party that had ever been known, I dare say; for I never heard of a man-of-war ball that was not. For ladies they had the family of the American consul, one or two travellers who had adventured so far, and a nice bevy of English girls and matrons, perhaps Lady Hamilton herself. Well, different officers relieved each other in standing and talking with Nolan in a friendly way, so as to be sure that nobody else spoke to him. The dancing went on with spirit, and after a while even the fellows who took this honorary guard of Nolan ceased to fear any _contretemps_. Only when some English lady--Lady Hamilton, as I said, perhaps--called for a set of "American dances," an odd thing happened. Everybody then danced contra-dances. The black band, nothing loath, conferred as to what "American dances" were, and started off with a "Virginia Reel," which they followed with "Money-Musk," which, in its turn in those days, should have been followed by "The Old Thirteen." But just as Dick, the leader, tapped for his fiddles to begin, and bent forward, about to say, in true negro state, "'The Old Thirteen, gentlemen and ladies!" as he had said "'Virginny Reel,' if you please!" and "'Money-Musk,' if you please!" the captain's boy tapped him on the shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and they all fell to,--the officers teaching the English girls the figure, but not telling them why it had no name. But that is not the story I started to tell.--As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got at ease, as I said,--so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say,-- "I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge. Shall I have the honor of dancing?" He did it so quickly, that Fellows, who was by him, could not hinder him. She laughed and said,-- "I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I will dance all the same," just nodded to Fellows, as if to say he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place where the dance was forming. Nolan thought he had got his chance. He had known her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and this was a Godsend. You could not talk in contra-dances, as you do in cotillons, or even in the pauses of waltzing; but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as for eyes and blushes. He began with her travels, and Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when they had worked down, and had that long talking-time at the bottom of the set, he said, boldly,--a little pale, she said, as she told me the story, years after,-- "And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?" And that splendid creature looked through him. Jove! how she must have looked through him! "Home!! Mr. Nolan!!! I thought you were the man who never wanted to hear of home again!"--and she walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor Nolan alone, as he always was.--He did not dance again. I cannot give any history of him in order; nobody can now; and, indeed, I am not trying to. These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told about this man for forty years. The lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows used to say he was the "Iron Mask"; and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author of "Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons was not very strong in the historical line. A happier story than either of these I have told is of the War. That came along soon after. I have heard this affair told in three or four ways,--and, indeed, it may have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I cannot tell. However, in one, at least, of the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon's people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt-sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority,--who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him,--perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,--sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,--showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot,--making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders,--and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said,-- "I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir." And this is the part of the story where all the legends agree; and the Commodore said,-- "I see you do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir." And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said,-- "Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here." And when Nolan came, the captain said,-- "Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the despatches." And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony, and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that infernal day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the Commodore's. The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was always said he asked that he might be pardoned. He wrote a special letter to the Secretary of War. But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington, and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was nobody to stop it without any new orders from home. I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took possession of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you know, but old Porter, his father, Essex Porter,--that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex. As an artillery officer, who had seen service in the West, Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would have settled all the question about his punishment. We should have kept the islands, and at this moment we should have one station in the Pacific Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied. But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that away. All that was near fifty year ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time; but that he read just five hours a day. "Then," he said, "I keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called "Odds and Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will have Nolan's scrap-books. Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything about the habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether they are _Lepidoptera_ or _Steptopotera_; but as for telling how you can get rid of them, or how they get away from you when you strike them,--why Linnæus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours made Nolan's regular daily "occupation." The rest of the time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a great deal. He always kept up his exercise; and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to, on any other occasion, he was always ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully. My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the War, on my first voyage after I was appointed a midshipman. It was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was a sort of lay chaplain,--a chaplain with a blue coat. I never asked about him. Everything in the ship was strange to me. I knew it was green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a "Plain-Buttons" on every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week, and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to be said about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were a great many things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first came to understand anything about "the man without a country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message came, and we all wished we could interpret, when the captain asked Who spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to interpret, if the captain wished, as he understood the language. The captain thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go. When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were not a great many of the negroes; but by way of making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had their hand-cuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake, was putting them upon the rascals of the schooner's crew. The negroes were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarming all round the dirty deck, with a central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in every dialect, and _patois_ of a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the Parisian of Beledeljereed. As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and said:-- "For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand something? The men gave them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe him. And then I talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they understood that as well as they understood the English." Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already, had worked for the Portuguese on the coast at Fernando Po. "Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get rope enough." Nolan "put that into Spanish,"--that is, he explained it in such Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand them. Then there was such a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a general rush made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous worship of Vaughan, as the _deus ex machina_ of the occasion. "Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said, "_Ah, non Palmas_" and began to propose infinite other expedients in most voluble language. Vaughan was rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men down, and said:-- "He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these devils caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says," choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon." Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through this interpretation. I, who did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting with fervent heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words, he said:-- "Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!" And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs. But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: "Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it, when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "and for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, "never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!" I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion, but I blundered out, that I would, by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say: "O, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!" I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never abused, for I never told this story till now, which afterward made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at night, to walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so directly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in St. Thomas harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and later in life, when I thought I had some influence in Washington, I moved heaven and earth to have him discharged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison. They pretended there was no such man, and never was such a man. They will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to know nothing! There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But this I believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, _ben trovato_, involving a tremendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr,--asking him how he liked to be "without a country." But it is clear from Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened; and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least mystery at bottom. So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. I know but one fate more dreadful; it is the fate reserved for those men who shall have one day to exile themselves from their country because they have attempted her ruin, and shall have at the same time to see the prosperity and honor to which she rises when she has rid herself of them and their iniquities. The wish of poor Nolan, as we all learned to call him, not because his punishment was too great, but because his repentance was so clear, was precisely the wish of every Bragg and Beauregard who broke a soldier's oath two years ago, and of every Maury and Barron who broke a sailor's. I do not know how often they have repented. I do know that they have done all that in them lay that they might have no country,--that all the honors, associations, memories, and hopes which belong to "country" might be broken up into little shreds and distributed to the winds. I know, too, that their punishment, as they vegetate through what is left of life to them in wretched Boulognes and Leicester Squares, where they are destined to upbraid each other till they die, will have all the agony of Nolan's, with the added pang that every one who sees them will see them to despise and to execrate them. They will have their wish, like him. For him, poor fellow, he repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. He never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but they never happened from his fault. Lieutenant Truxton told me, that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion among the officers, whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps, and cut Texas out of it,--from the map of the world and the map of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the atlas was bought for him. But it was voted, rightly enough, that to do this would be virtually to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think Old Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a short time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South American station. We were lying in the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on shore, and had just joined again, were entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-wild horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story of a tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own, when he was catching wild horses in Texas with his adventurous cousin, at a time when he must have been quite a boy. He told the story with a good deal of spirit,--so much so, that the silence which often follows a good story hung over the table for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked perfectly unconsciously:-- "Pray, what has become of Texas? After the Mexicans got their independence, I thought that province of Texas would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the Italy of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty years." There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason he had never heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so that, while he read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and, till quite lately, of California,--this virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far, and, I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each other, and tried not to laugh. Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's chandelier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say,-- "Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome?" After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice a year, for in that voyage we became even confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in those fifteen years he _aged_ very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self-appointed punishment,--rather less social, perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious, apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom fairly seemed to worship him. And now it seems the dear old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and a country. * * * * * Since writing this, and while considering whether or no I would print it, as a warning to the young Nolans and Vallandighams and Tatnalls of to-day of what it is to throw away a country, I have received from Danforth, who is on board the Levant, a letter which gives an account of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about telling this story. To understand the first words of the letter, the non-professional reader should remember that after 1817, the position of every officer who had Nolan in charge was one of the greatest delicacy. The government had failed to renew the order of 1807 regarding him. What was a man to do? Should he let him go? What, then, if he were called to account by the Department for violating the order of 1807? Should he keep him? What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had had him in charge? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I have reason to think that other officers did the same thing. But the Secretary always said, as they so often do at Washington, that there were no special orders to give, and that we must act on our own judgment. That means, "If you succeed, you will be sustained; if you fail, you will be disavowed." Well, as Danforth says, all that is over now, though I do not know but I expose myself to a criminal prosecution on the evidence of the very revelation I am making. Here is the letter:-- * * * * * "LEVANT, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. "DEAR FRED:--I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near. The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not left his state-room,--a thing I never remember before. He had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there,--the first time the doctor had been in the state-room,--and he said he should like to see me. O dear! do you remember the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room, in the old Intrepid days? Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, 'Here, you see, I have a country!' And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large letters: 'Indiana Territory,' 'Mississippi Territory,' and 'Louisiana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers learned such things: but the old fellow had patched in Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing. "'O Danforth,' he said, 'I know I am dying. I cannot get home. Surely you will tell me something now?--Stop! stop! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America,--God bless her!--a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are. There has never been one taken away: I thank God for that. I know by that that there has never been any successful Burr. O Danforth, Danforth,' he sighed out, 'how like a wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a life as mine! But tell me,--tell me something,--tell me everything, Danforth, before I die!' "Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster that I had not told him everything before. Danger or no danger, delicacy or no delicacy, who was I, that I should have been acting the tyrant all this time over this dear, sainted old man, who had years ago expiated, in his whole manhood's life, the madness of a boy's treason? 'Mr. Nolan,' said I, 'I will tell you every thing you ask about. Only, where shall I begin?' "O the blessed smile that crept over his white face! and he pressed my hand and said, 'God bless you' 'Tell me their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. 'The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi,--that was where Fort Adams is,--they make twenty. But where are your other fourteen? You have not cut up any of the old ones, I hope?' "Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how his cousin died there; he had marked a gold cross near where he supposed his grave was; and he had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California and Oregon;--that, he said, he had suspected partly, because he had never been permitted to land on that shore, though the ships were there so much. 'And the men,' said he, laughing, 'brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then he went back--heavens, how far!--to ask about the Chesapeake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again,--and he ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was over, and he said, 'God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old war,--told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took the Java,--asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then he settled down more quietly, and very happily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. "How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told him all I could think of about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you think, he asked who was in command of the 'Legion of the West.' I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant, and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head-quarters at Vicksburg. Then, 'Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams; and I thought Fort Adams must he a ruin now. 'It must be at old Vick's plantation,' at Walnut Hills, said he: 'well, that is a change!' "I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him,--of emigration, and the means of it,--of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs,--of inventions, and books, and literature,--of the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School,--but with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six years! "I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President now; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had worked up from the ranks. 'Good for him!' cried Nolan; 'I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian, and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Washington: Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal Rebellion! "And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right place,--and so it did. There was his double red mark down the page; and I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me, 'For ourselves and our country, O gracious God, we thank Thee, that, notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy marvellous kindness,'--and so to the end of that thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the words more familiar to me: 'Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the United States, and all others in authority,'--and the rest of the Episcopal collect. 'Danforth,' said he, 'I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me; and he said, 'Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went away. "But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy and I wanted him to be alone. "But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of the Cincinnati. "We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place where he had marked the text:-- "'They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city.' "On this slip of paper he had written:-- "'Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it:-- "'_In Memory of_ PHILIP NOLAN, _Lieutenant in the Army of the United States_, He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.'" THE LAST OF THE FLORIDA. FROM THE INGHAM PAPERS. [The Florida, Anglo-Rebel pirate, after inflicting horrible injuries on the commerce of America and the good name of England, was cut out by Captain Collins, from the bay of Bahia, by one of those fortunate mistakes in international law which endear brave men to the nations in whose interest they are committed. When she arrived here the government was obliged to disavow the act. The question then was, as we had her by mistake, what we should do with her. At that moment the National Sailors' Fair was in full blast at Boston, and I offered my suggestion in answer in the following article, which was published November 19, 1864, in the "Boatswain's Whistle," a little paper issued at the fair. The government did not take the suggestion. Very unfortunately, before the Florida was got ready for sea, she was accidentally sunk in a collision with a tug off Fort Monroe, and the heirs of the Confederate government or the English bond-holders must look there for her, if the Brazilian government will give them permission. For the benefit of the New York Observer I will state that a despatch sent round the world in a spiral direction westward 1,200 times, would not really arrive at its destination four years before it started. It is only a joke which suggests it.] * * * * * SPECIAL DESPATCH. LETTER FROM CAPTAIN INGHAM, IN COMMAND OF THE FLORIDA. [Received four years in advance of the mail by a lightning express, which has gained that time by running round the world 1,200 times in a spiral direction westward on its way from Brazil to our publication-office. Mrs. Ingham's address not being known, the letter is printed for her information.] No. 29. BAHIA, BRAZIL, April 1, 1868. MY DEAR WIFE:--We are here at last, thank fortune; and I shall surrender the old pirate to-day to the officers of government. We have been saluted, are to be fêted, and perhaps I shall be made a Knight Commander of the Golden Goose. I never was so glad as when I saw the lights on the San Esperitu head-land, which makes the south point of this Bahia or bay. You will not have received my No. 28 from Loando, and may have missed 26 and 24, which I gave to _outward_ bound whalemen. I always doubted whether you got 1, 7, 9, and 11. And for me I have no word of you since you waved your handkerchief from the window in Springfield Street on the morning of the 1st of June, 1865, nearly four years. My dear child, you will not know me. Let me then repeat, very briefly, the outline of this strange cruise; and when the letters come, you can fill in the blanks. The government had determined that the Florida must be returned to the neutral harbor whence she came. They had put her in complete repair, and six months of diplomacy had made the proper apologies to the Brazilian government. Meanwhile Collins, who had captured her by mistake, had, by another mistake, been made an admiral, and was commanding a squadron; and to insure her safe and respectful delivery, I, who had been waiting service, was un shelved, and, as you know, bidden to take command. She was in apple-pie order. The engines had been cleaned up; and I thought we could make a quick thing of it. I was a little dashed when I found the crew was small; but I have been glad enough since that we had no more mouths. No one but myself knew our destination. The men thought we were to take despatches to the Gulf squadron. You remember I had had only verbal orders to take command, and after we got outside the bay I opened my sealed despatches. The gist of them was in these words:-- "You will understand that the honor of this government is pledged for the _safe_ delivery of the Florida to the government of Brazil. You will therefore hazard nothing to gain speed. The quantity of your coal has been adjusted with the view to give your vessel her best trim, and the supply is not large. You will husband it with care,--taking every precaution to arrive in Bahia _safely_ with your charge, in such time as _your best discretion_ may suggest to you." "_Your best discretion_" was underscored. I called Prendergast, and showed him the letter. Then we called the engineer and asked about the coal. He had not been into the bunkers, but went and returned with his face white, through the black grime, to report "not four days' consumption." By some cursed accident, he said, the bunkers had been filled with barrels of salt-pork and flour! On this, I ordered a light and went below. There had been some fatal misunderstanding somewhere. The vessel was fitted out as for an arctic voyage. Everywhere hard-bread, flour, pork, beef, vinegar, sour-krout; but, clearly enough, not, at the very best, five days of coal! And I was to get to Brazil with this old pirate transformed into a provision ship, "at my best discretion." "Prendergast," said I, "we will take it easy. Were you ever in Bahia?" "Took flour there in '55, and lay waiting for India-rubber from July to October. Lost six men by yellow-jack." Prendergast was from the merchant marine. I had known him since we were children. "Ethan," said I, "in my best discretion it would be bad to arrive there before the end of October. Where would you go?" I cannot say he took the responsibility. He would not take it. You know, my dear, of course, that it was I who suggested Upernavik. From the days of the old marbled paper Northern Regions,--through the quarto Ross and Parry and Back and the nephew Ross and Kane and McClure and McClintock, you know, my dear, what my one passion has been,--to see those floes and icebergs for myself. Surely you forgive me, or at least excuse me. Do not you? Here was this fast steamer under me. I ought not to be in Bahia before October 25. It was June 1. Of course we went to Upernavik. I will not say I regret it now. Yet I will say that on that decision, cautiously made, though it was "on my discretion," all our subsequent misfortunes hang. The Danes were kind to us,--the Governor especially, though I had to carry the poor fellow bad news about the Duchies and the Danish war, which was all fresh then. He got up a dance for us, I remember, and there I wrote No. 1 to you. I could not of course help--when we left him--running her up a few degrees to the north, just to see whether there is or is not that passage between Igloolik and Prince Rupert's Headland (and by the way there _is_). After we passed Igloolik, there was such splendid weather, that I just used up a little coal to drive her along the coast of King William's Land; and there, as we waited for little duck-shooting on the edge of a floe one day, as our luck ordered, a party of natives came on board, and we treated them with hard-tack crumbs and whale-oil. They fell to dancing, and we to laughing,--they danced more and we laughed more, till the oldest woman tumbled in her bear-skin bloomers, and came with a smash right on the little cast-iron frame by the wheel, which screened binnacle and compass. My dear child, there was such a hullalu and such a mess together as I remember now. We had to apologize, the doctor set her head as well as he could. We gave them gingerbread from the cabin, to console them, and got them off without a fight. But the next morning when I cast off from the floe, it proved the beggars had stolen the compass card, needle and all. My dear Mary, there was not another bit of magnetized iron in the ship. The government had been very shy of providing instruments of any kind for Confederate cruisers. Poor Ethan had traded off two compasses only the day before for whalebone spears and skin breeches, neither of which knew the north star from the ace of spades. And this thing proved of more importance than you will think; it really made me feel that the stuff in the books and the sermons about the mariners' needle was not quite poetry. As you shall see, if I ever get through. (Since I began, I have seen the Consul,--and heard the glorious news from home,--and am to be presented to the port authorities to-morrow.) It was the most open summer, Mary, ever known there. If I had not had to be here in October, I would have driven right through Lancaster Sound, by Baring's Island, and come out into the Pacific. But here was the honor of the country, and we merely stole back through the Straits. It was well enough there,--all daylight, you know. But after we passed Cape Farewell, we worked her into such fogs, child, as you never saw out of Hyde Park. Did not I long for that compass-card! We sailed, and we sailed, and we sailed. For thirty-seven days I did not get an observation, nor speak a ship! October! It was October before we were warm. At noon we used to sail where we thought it was lightest. At night I used to keep two men up for a lookout, lash the wheel, and let her drift like a Dutchman. One way as good as another. Mary, when I saw the sun at last, enough to get any kind of observation, we were wellnigh three hundred miles northeast of Iceland! Talk of fogs to me! Well, I set her south again, but how long can you know if you are sailing south, in those places where the northeast winds and Scotch mists come from! Thank Heaven, we got south, or we should have frozen to death. We got into November, and we got into December. We were as far south as 37° 29'; and were in 31° 17' west on New Year's Day, 1866, when the second officer wished me a happy new year, congratulated me on the fine weather, said we should get a good observation, and asked me for the new nautical almanac! You know they are only calculated for five years. We had two Greenwich ones on board, and they ran out December 31, 1865. But the government had been as stingy in almanacs as in coal and compasses. They did not mean to keep the Confederacy in almanacs. That was the beginning of our troubles. I had to take the old almanac, with Prendergast, and we figured like Cocker, and always kept ahead with a month's tables. But somehow,--I feel sure we were right,--but something was wrong; and after a few weeks the lunars used to come out in the most beastly way, and we always proved to be on the top of the Andes or in the Marquesas Islands, or anywhere but in the Atlantic Ocean. Well then, by good luck, we spoke the Winged Batavian; could not speak a word of Dutch, nor he a word of English; but he let Ethan copy his tables, and so we ran for St. Sacrament. I posted 8, 9, and 10 there; I gave the Dutchman 7, which I hope you got, but fear. Well, this story is running long; but at St. Sacrament we started again, but, as ill-luck would have it, without a clean bill of health. At that time I could have run into Bahia with coal--of which I had bought some--in a week. But there was fever on shore,--and bad,--and I knew we must make pratique when we came into the outer harbor here; so, rather than do that, we stretched down the coast, and met that cyclone I wrote you about, and had to put into Loando. Understand, this was the first time we went into Loando. I have learned that wretched hole well enough since. And it was as we were running out of Loando, that, in reversing the engine too suddenly, lest we should smash up an old Portuguese woman's bum-boat, that the slides or supports of the piston-rod just shot out of the grooves they run in on the top, came cleverly down on the outside of the carriage, gave that odious _g-r-r-r_, which I can hear now, and then, _dump_,--down came the whole weight of the walking-beam, bent rod and carriages all into three figure 8's, and there we were! I had as lief run the boat with a clothes-wringer as with that engine, any day, from then to now. Well, we tinkered, and the Portuguese dock-yard people tinkered. We took out this, and they took out that. It was growing sickly, and I got frightened, and finally I shipped the propeller and took it on board, and started under such canvas as we had left,--not much after the cyclone,--for the North and the South together had rather rotted the original duck. Then,--as I wrote you in No. 11,--it was too late to get to Bahia before that summer's sickly season, and I stretched off to cooler regions again, "in my best discretion." That was the time when we had the fever so horribly on board; and but for Wilder the surgeon, and the Falkland Islands, we should be dead, every man of us, now. But we touched in Queen's Bay just in time. The Governor (who is his own only subject) was very cordial and jolly and kind. We all went ashore, and pitched tents, and ate ducks and penguins till the men grew strong. I scraped her, nearly down to the bends, for the grass floated by our side like a mermaid's hair as we sailed, and the once swift Florida would not make four knots an hour on the wind;--and this was the ship I was to get into Bahia in good order, at my best discretion! Meanwhile none of these people had any news from America. The last paper at the Falkland Islands was a London Times of 1864, abusing the Yankees. As for the Portuguese, they were like the people Logan saw at Vicksburg. "They don't know anything good!" said he; "they don't know anything at all!" It was really more for news than for water I put into Sta. Lucia,--and a pretty mess I made of it there. We looked so like pirates (as at bottom the old tub is), that they took all of us who landed to the guard-house. None of us could speak Sta. Lucia, whatever that tongue may be, nor understand it. And it was not till Ethan fired a shell from the 100-pound Parrott over the town that they let us go. I hope the dogs sent you my letters. I suppose there was another infringement of neutrality. But if the Brazilian government sends this ship to Sta. Lucia, I shall not command her, that's all! Well! what happened at Loando the second time, Valencia, and Puntos Pimos, and Nueva Salamanca, and Loando this last time, you know and will know, and why we loitered so. At last, thank fortune, here we are. Actually, Mary, this ship logged on the average only thirty-two knots a day for the last week before we got her into port. Now think of the ingratitude of men! I have brought her in here, "according to my best discretion," and do you believe, these hidalgos, or dons, or senores, or whatever they are, had forgotten she existed. And when I showed them to her, they said in good Portugal that I was a liar. Fortunately the Consul is our old friend Kingsley. He was delighted to see me; thought I was at the bottom of the sea. From him we learned that the Confederacy was blown sky-high long ago. And from all I can learn, I may have the Florida back again for my own private yacht or peculium, unless she goes to Sta. Lucia. Not I, my friends! Scrape her, and mend her, and give her to the marines,--and tell them her story; but do not intrust her again to my own Polly's own FREDERIC INGHAM A PIECE OF POSSIBLE HISTORY. [This essay was first published in the Monthly Religious Magazine, Boston, for October, 1851. One or another professor of chronology has since taken pains to tell me that it is impossible. But until they satisfy themselves whether Homer ever lived at all, I shall hold to the note which I wrote to Miss Dryasdust's cousin, which I printed originally at the end of the article, and which will be found there in this collection. The difficulties in the geography are perhaps worse than those of chronology.] * * * * * A summer bivouac had collected together a little troop of soldiers from Joppa, under the shelter of a grove, where they had spread their sheep-skins, tethered their horses, and pitched a single tent. With the carelessness of soldiers, they were chatting away the time till sleep might come, and help them to to-morrow with its chances; perhaps of fight, perhaps of another day of this camp indolence. Below the garden slope where they were lounging, the rapid torrent of Kishon ran brawling along. A full moon was rising above the rough edge of the Eastern hills, and the whole scene was alive with the loveliness of an Eastern landscape. As they talked together, the strains of a harp came borne down the stream by the wind, mingling with the rippling of the brook. "The boys were right," said the captain of the little company. "They asked leave to go up the stream to spend their evening with the Carmel-men; and said that they had there a harper, who would sing and play for them." "Singing at night, and fighting in the morning! It is the true soldier's life," said another. "Who have they there?" asked a third. "One of those Ziklag-men," replied the chief. "He came into camp a few days ago, seems to be an old favorite of the king's, and is posted with his men, by the old tomb on the edge of the hill. If you cross the brook, he is not far from the Carmel post; and some of his young men have made acquaintance there." "One is not a soldier for nothing. If we make enemies at sight, we make friends at sight too." "Echish here says that the harper is a Jew." "What!--a deserter?" "I do not know that; that is the king's lookout. Their company came up a week ago, were reviewed the day I was on guard at the outposts, and they had this post I tell you of assigned to them. So the king is satisfied; and, if he is, I am." "Jew or Gentile, Jehovah's man or Dagon's man," said one of the younger soldiers, with a half-irreverent tone, "I wish we had him here to sing to us." "And to keep us awake," yawned another. "Or to keep us from thinking of to-morrow," said a third. "Can nobody sing here, or play, or tell an old-time story?" There was nobody. The only two soldiers of the post, who affected musical skill, were the two who had gone up to the Carmelites' bivouac; and the little company of Joppa--catching louder notes and louder, as the bard's inspiration carried him farther and farther away--crept as far up the stream as the limits of their station would permit; and lay, without noise, to catch, as they best could, the rich tones of the music as it swept down the valley. Soothed by the sound, and by the moonlight, and by the summer breeze, they were just in mood to welcome the first interruption which broke the quiet of the night. It was the approach of one of their company, who had been detached to Accho a day or two before; and who came hurrying in to announce the speedy arrival of companions, for whom he bespoke a welcome. Just as they were to leave Accho, he said, that day, on their return to camp, an Ionian trading-vessel had entered port. He and his fellow-soldiers had waited to help her moor, and had been chatting with her seamen. They had told them of the chance of battle to which they were returning; and two or three of the younger Ionians, enchanted at the relief from the sea's imprisonment, had begged them to let them volunteer in company with them. These men had come up into the country with the soldiers, therefore; and he who had broken the silence of the listeners to the distant serenade had hurried on to tell his comrades that such visitors were on their way. They soon appeared on foot, but hardly burdened by the light packs they bore. A soldier's welcome soon made the Ionian sailors as much at home with the men of the bivouac, as they had been through the day with the detachment from the sea-board. A few minutes were enough to draw out sheep-skins for them to lie upon, a skin of wine for their thirst, a bunch of raisins and some oat-cakes for their hunger; a few minutes more had told the news which each party asked from the other; and then these sons of the sea and these war-bronzed Philistines were as much at ease with each other as if they had served under the same sky for years. "We were listening to music," said the old chief, "when you came up. Some of our young men have gone up, indeed, to the picket yonder, to hear the harper sing, whose voice you catch sometimes, when we are not speaking." "You find the Muses in the midst of arms, then," said one of the young Ionians. "Muses?" said the old Philistine, laughing. "That sounds like you Greeks. Ah! sir, in our rocks here we have few enough Muses, but those who carry these lances, or teach us how to trade with the islands for tin." "That's not quite fair," cried another. "The youngsters who are gone sing well; and one of them has a harp I should be glad you should see. He made it himself from a gnarled olive-root." And he turned to look for it. "You'll not find it in the tent: the boy took it with him. They hoped the Ziklag minstrel might ask them to sing, I suppose." "A harp of olive-wood," said the Ionian, "seems Muse-born and Pallas-blessed." And, as he spoke, one of the new-comers of the Philistines leaned over, and whispered to the chief: "He is a bard himself, and we made him promise to sing to us. I brought his harp with me that he might cheer up our bivouac. Pray, do you ask him." The old chief needed no persuasion; and the eyes of the whole force brightened as they found they had a minstrel "of their own" now, when the old man pressed the young Ionian courteously to let them hear him: "I told you, sir, that we had no Muses of our own; but we welcome all the more those who come to us from over seas." Homer smiled; for it was Homer whom he spoke to,--Homer still in the freshness of his unblinded youth. He took the harp which the young Philistine handed to him, thrummed upon its chords, and as he tuned them said: "I have no harp of olive-wood; we cut this out, it was years ago, from an old oleander in the marshes behind Colophon. What will you hear, gentlemen?" "The poet chooses for himself," said the courtly old captain. "Let me sing you, then, of _the Olive Harp_"; and he struck the chords in a gentle, quieting harmony, which attuned itself to his own spirit, pleased as he was to find music and harmony and the olive of peace in the midst of the rough bivouac, where he had come up to look for war. But he was destined to be disappointed. Just as his prelude closed, one of the young soldiers turned upon his elbow, and whispered contemptuously to his neighbor: "Always _olives_, always _peace_: that's all your music's good for!" The boy spoke too loud, and Homer caught the discontented tone and words with an ear quicker than the speaker had given him credit for. He ended the prelude with a sudden crash on the strings, and said shortly, "And what is better to sing of than the olive?" The more courteous Philistines looked sternly on the young soldier; but he had gone too far to be frightened, and he flashed back: "War is better. My broadsword is better. If I could sing, I would sing to your Ares; we call him Mars!" Homer smiled gravely. "Let it be so," said he; and, in a lower tone, to the captain, who was troubled at the breach of courtesy, he added, "Let the boy see what war and Mars are for." He struck another prelude and began. Then was it that Homer composed his "Hymn to Mars." In wild measure, and impetuous, he swept along through the list of Mars's titles and attributes; then his key changed, and his hearers listened more intently, more solemnly, as in a graver strain, with slower music, and an almost awed dignity of voice, the bard went on.-- "Helper of mortals, hear! As thy fires give The present boldnesses that strive In youth for honor; So would I likewise wish to have the power To keep off from my head thy bitter hour, And quench the false fire of my soul's low kind, By the fit ruling of my highest mind I Control that sting of wealth That stirs me on still to the horrid scath Of hideous battle! "Do thou, O ever blessed! give me still Presence of mind to put in act my will, Whate'er the occasion be; And so to live, unforced by any fear, Beneath those laws of peace, that never are Affected with pollutions popular Of unjust injury, As to bear safe the burden of hard fates, Of foes inflexive, and inhuman hates!" The tones died away; the company was hushed for a moment; and the old chief then said gravely to his petulant follower, "That is what _men_ fight for, boy." But the boy did not need the counsel. Homer's manner, his voice, the music itself, the spirit of the song, as much as the words, had overcome him; and the boasting soldier was covering his tears with his hands. Homer felt at once (the prince of gentlemen he) that the little outbreak, and the rebuke of it, had jarred the ease of their unexpected meeting. How blessed is the presence of mind with which the musician of real genius passes from song to song, "whate'er the occasion be!" With the ease of genius he changed the tone of his melody again, and sang his own hymn, "To Earth, the Mother of all." The triumphant strain is one which harmonizes with every sentiment; and he commanded instantly the rapt attention of the circle. So engrossed was he, that he did not seem to observe, as he sang, an addition to their company of some soldiers from above in the valley, just _as_ he entered on the passage:-- "Happy, then, are they Whom thou, O great in reverence! Are bent to honor. They shall all things find In all abundance! All their pastures yield Herds in all plenty. All their roofs are filled With rich possessions. High happiness and wealth attend them, While, with laws well-ordered, they Cities of happy households sway; And their sons exult in the pleasure of youth, And their daughters dance with the flower-decked girls, Who play among the flowers of summer! Such are the honors thy full hands divide; Mother of Gods and starry Heaven's bride!"[A] A buzz of pleasure and a smile ran round the circle, in which the new-comers joined. They were the soldiers who had been to hear and join the music at the Carmel-men's post. The tones of Homer's harp had tempted them to return; and they had brought with them the Hebrew minstrel, to whom they had been listening. It was the outlaw David, of Bethlehem Ephrata. David had listened to Homer more intently than any one; and, as the pleased applause subsided, the eyes of the circle gathered upon him, and the manner of all showed that they expected him, in minstrel-fashion, to take up the same strain. He accepted the implied invitation, played a short prelude, and taking Homer's suggestion of topic, sang in parallel with it:-- "I will sing a new song unto thee, O God! Upon psaltery and harp will I sing praise to thee. Thou art He that giveth salvation to kings, That delivereth David, thy servant, from the sword. Rid me and save me from those who speak vanity, Whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood,-- That our sons may be as plants in fresh youth; That our daughters may be as corner-stones,-- The polished stones of our palaces; That our garners may be full with all manner of store; That our sheep may bring forth thousands and ten thousands in the way; That there may be no cry nor complaint in our streets Happy is the people that is in such a case; Yea, happy is the people whose God is the Lord!" The melody was triumphant; and the enthusiastic manner yet more so. The Philistines listened delighted,--too careless of religion, they, indeed not to be catholic in presence of religious enthusiasm; and Homer wore the exalted expression which his face seldom wore. For the first time since his childhood, Homer felt that he was not alone in the world! Who shall venture to tell what passed between the two minstrels, when Homer, leaving his couch, crossed the circle at once, flung himself on the ground by David's side, gave him his hand; when they looked each other in the face, and sank down into the rapid murmuring of talk, which constant gesture illustrated, but did not fully explain to the rough men around them? They respected the poets' colloquy for a while; but then, eager again to hear one harp or the other, they persuaded one of the Ionian sailors to ask Homer again to sing to them. It was hard to persuade Homer. He shook his head, and turned back to the soldier-poet. "What should _I_ sing?" he said. They did not enter into his notion: hearers will not always. And so, taking his question literally, they replied, "Sing? Sing us of the snow-storm, the storm of stones, of which you sang at noon." Poor Homer! It was easier to do it than to be pressed to do it; and he struck his harp again:-- "It was as when, some wintry day, to men Jove would, in might, his sharp artillery show; He wills his winds to sleep, and over plain And mountains pours, in countless flakes, his snow, Deep it conceals the rocky cliffs and hills, Then covers all the blooming meadows o'er, All the rich monuments of mortals' skill, All ports and rocks that break the ocean-shore Rock, haven, plain, are buried by its fall; But the near wave, unchanging, drinks it all. So while these stony tempests veil the skies, While this on Greeks, and that on Trojans flies, The walls unchanged above the clamor rise."[B] The men looked round upon David, whose expression, as he returned the glance, showed that he had enjoyed the fragment as well as they. But when they still looked expectant, he did not decline the unspoken invitation; but, taking Homer's harp, sang, as if the words were familiar to him:-- "He giveth snow like wool; He scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes; He casteth forth his ice like morsels; Who can stand before his cold? He sendeth forth his word, and melteth them; He causeth his wind to blow, and the waters flow." "Always this '_He_,'" said one of the young soldiers to another. "Yes," he replied; "and it was so in the beginning of the evening, when we were above there." "There is a strange difference between the two men, though the one plays as well as the other, and the Greek speaks with quite as little foreign accent as the Jew, and their subjects are the same." "Yes," said the young Philistine harper; "if the Greek should sing one of the Hebrew's songs, you would know he had borrowed it, in a moment." "And so, if it were the other way." "Of course," said their old captain, joining in this conversation. "Homer, if you call him so, sings the thing made: David sings the maker. Or, rather, Homer thinks of the thing made: David thinks of the maker, whatever they sing." "I was going to say that Homer would sing of cities; and David, of the life in them." "It is not what they say so much, as the way they look at it. The Greek sees the outside,--the beauty of the thing; the Hebrew--" "Hush!" For David and his new friend had been talking too. Homer had told him of the storm at sea they met a few days before; and David, I think, had spoken of a mountain-tornado, as he met it years before. In the excitement of his narrative he struck the harp, which was still in his hand, and sung:-- "Then the earth shook and trembled, The foundations of the hills moved and were shaken, Because He was wroth; There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, And fire out of his mouth devoured; It burned with living coal. He bowed the heavens also, and came down, And darkness was under his feet; He rode upon a cherub and did fly, Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his resting-place, His pavilion were dark waters and clouds of the skies; At the brightness before him his clouds passed by, Hail-stones and coals of fire. The Lord also thundered in the heavens, And the highest gave his voice; Hail-stones and coals of fire. Yea, he sent out his arrows, and scattered them, And he shot out his lightnings, and discomfited them. Then the channels of waters were seen, And the foundations of the world were made known, At thy rebuke, O Lord! At the blast of the breath of thy nostrils. He sent from above, he took me, He drew me out of many waters." "Mine were but a few verses," said Homer. "I am more than repaid by yours. Imagine Neptune, our sea-god, looking on a battle:-- "There he sat high, retired from the seas; There looked with pity on his Grecians beaten; There burned with rage at the god-king who slew them. Then he rushed forward from the rugged mountains, Quickly descending; He bent the forests also as he came down, And the high cliffs shook under his feet. Three times he trod upon them, And with his fourth step reached the home he sought for. "There was his palace, in the deep waters of the seas, Shining with gold, and builded forever. There he yoked him his swift-footed horses; Their hoofs are brazen, and their manes are golden. He binds them with golden thongs, He seizes his golden goad, He mounts upon his chariot, and doth fly: Yes! he drives them forth into the waves! And the whales rise under him from the depths, For they know he is their king; And the glad sea is divided into parts, That his steeds may fly along quickly; And his brazen axle passes dry between the waves, So, bounding fast, they bring him to his Grecians."[C] And the poets sank again into talk. "You see it," said the old Philistine. "He paints the picture. David sings the life of the picture." "Yes: Homer sees what he sings; David feels his song." "Homer's is perfect in its description." "Yes; but for life, for the soul of the description, you need the Hebrew." "Homer might be blind; and, with that fancy and word-painting power of his, and his study of everything new, he would paint pictures as he sang, though unseen." "Yes," said another; "but David--" And he paused. "But David?" asked the chief. "I was going to say that he might be blind, deaf, imprisoned, exiled, sick, or all alone, and that yet he would never know he was alone; feeling as he does, as he must to sing so, of the presence of this Lord of his!" "He does not think of a snow-flake, but as sent from him." "While the snow-flake is reminding Homer of that hard, worrying, slinging work of battle. He must have seen fight himself." They were hushed again. For, though they no longer dared ask the poets to sing to them,--so engrossed were they in each other's society,--the soldiers were hardly losers from this modest courtesy. For the poets were constantly arousing each other to strike a chord, or to sing some snatch of remembered song. And so it was that Homer, _àpropos_ of I do not know what, sang in a sad tone:-- "Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground: Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise. So generations in their course decay, So flourish these, when those have passed away."[D] David waited for a change in the strain; but Homer stopped. The young Hebrew asked him to go on; but Homer said that the passage which followed was mere narrative, from a long narrative poem. David looked surprised that his new friend had not pointed a moral as he sang; and said simply, "We sing that thus:-- "As for man, his days are as grass; As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth; For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone, And the place thereof shall know it no more. But the mercy of the Lord Is from everlasting to everlasting Of them that fear him; And his righteousness Unto children's children, To such as keep his covenant, As remember his commandments to do them!" Homer's face flashed delighted. "I, like you, 'keep his covenant,'" he cried; and then without a lyre, for his was still in David's hands, he sang, in clear tone:-- "Thou bid'st me birds obey;--I scorn their flight, If on the left they rise, or on the right! Heed them who may, the will of Jove I own, Who mortals and immortals rules alone!"[E] "That is more in David's key," said the young Philistine harper, seeing that the poets had fallen to talk together again. "But how would it sound in one of the hymns on one of our feast-days?" "Who mortals and immortals rules alone." "How, indeed?" cried one of his young companions. "There would be more sense in what the priests say and sing, if each were not quarrelling for his own,--Dagon against Astarte, and Astarte against Dagon." The old captain bent over, that the poets might not hear him, and whispered: "There it is that the Hebrews have so much more heart than we in such things. Miserable fellows though they are, so many of them, yet, when I have gone through their whole land with the caravans, the chances have been that any serious-minded man spoke of no God but this '_He_' of David's." "What is his name?" "They do not know themselves, I believe." "Well, as I said an hour ago, God's man or Dagon's man,--for those are good names enough for me,--I care little; but I should like to sing as that young fellow does." "My boy," said the old man, "have not you heard him enough to see that it is not _he_ that sings, near as much as this love of his for a Spirit he does not name? It is that spirited heart of his that sings." "_You_ sing like him? Find his life, boy; and perhaps it may sing for you." "We should be more manly men, if he sang to us every night." "Or if the other did," said an Ionian sailor. "Yes," said the chief. "And yet, I think, if your countryman sang every night to me, he would make me want the other. Whether David's singing would send me to his, I do not feel sure. But how silly to compare them! As well compare the temple in Accho with the roar of a whirlwind--" "Or the point of my lance with the flight of an eagle. The men are in two worlds." "O, no! that is saying too much. You said that one could paint pictures--" "--Into which the other puts life. Yes, I did say so. We are fortunate that we have them together." "For this man sings of men quite as well as the other does; and to have the other sing of God--' "--Why, it completes the song. Between them they bring the two worlds together." "He bows the heavens, and comes down," said the boy of the olive-harp, trying to hum David's air. "Let us ask them--" And just then there rang along the valley the sound of a distant conch-shell. The soldiers groaned, roused up, and each looked for his own side-arms and his own skin. But the poets talked on unheeding. The old chief knocked down a stack of lances; but the crash did not rouse them. He was obliged himself to interrupt their eager converse. "I am sorry to break in; but the night-horn has sounded to rest, and the guard will be round to inspect the posts. I am sorry to hurry you away, sir," he said to David. David thanked him courteously. "Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest," said Homer, with a smile. "We will all meet to-morrow. And may to-night's dreams be good omens!" "If we dream at all," said Homer again:-- "Without a sign his sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country's cause." They were all standing together, as he made this careless reply to the captain; and one of the young men drew him aside, and whispered that David was in arms against his country. Homer was troubled that he had spoken as he did, But the young Jew looked little as if he needed sympathy. He saw the doubt and regret which hung over their kindly faces; told them not to fear for him; singing, as he bade them good night, and with one of the Carmel-men walked home to his own outpost:-- "The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion, The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the bear, He will deliver me." And he smiled to think how his Carmelite companion would start, if he knew when first he used those words. So they parted, as men who should meet on the morrow. But God disposes. David had left to-morrow's dangers for to-morrow to care for. It seemed to promise him that he must be in arms against Saul. But, unlike us in our eagerness to anticipate our conflicts of duty, David _waited_. And the Lord delivered him. While they were singing by the brookside, the proud noblemen of the Philistine army had forced an interview with their king; and, in true native Philistine arrogance, insisted that "this Hebrew" and his men should be sent away. With the light of morning the king sent for the minstrel, and courteously dismissed him, because "the princes of the Philistines have said, 'He shall not go up with us to the battle.'" So David marched his men to Ziklag. And David and Homer never met on earth again. NOTE.--This will be a proper place to print the following note, which I was obliged to write to a second cousin of Miss Dryasdust after she had read the MS. of the article above:-- "DEAR MADAM:--I thank you for your kind suggestion, in returning my paper, that it involves a piece of impossible history. You inform me, that, according to the nomenclatured formulas and homophonic analogies of Professor Gouraud, of never-to-be-forgotten memory, "A NEEDLE is less useful for curing a DEAF HEAD, than for putting ear-rings into a _Miss's lily-ears_"; and that this shows that the second king of Judah, named David (or Deaf-head) began to reign in 1055 B.C., and died 1040 B.C.'; and further, that, according to the same authority, '_Homer flourished_ when the Greeks were fond of his POETRY'; which, being interpreted, signifies that he flourished in 914 B.C., and, consequently, could have had no more to do with David than to plant ivy over his grave, in some of his voyages to Phoenicia. "I thank you for the suggestion. I knew the unforgetting professor; and I do not doubt that he remembered David and Homer as his near friends. But, of course, to such a memory, a century or two might easily slip aside. "Now, did you look up Clement? And did you not forget the Arundelian Marbles? For, if you will take the long estimates, you will find that some folks think Homer lived as long ago as the year 1150, and some that it was as 'short ago' as 850. And some set David as long ago as 1170, and some bring him down to a hundred and fifty years later. These are the long measures and the short measures. So the long and short of it is, that you can keep the two poets 320 years apart, while I have rather more than a century which I can select any night of, for a bivouac scene, in which to bring them together. Believe me, my dear Miss D., always yours, &c. "Confess that you forgot the Arundelian Marbles!" THE SOUTH AMERICAN EDITOR [I am tempted to include this little burlesque in this collection simply in memory of the Boston Miscellany, the magazine in which it was published, which won for itself a brilliant reputation in its short career. There was not a large staff of writers for the Miscellany, but many of the names then unknown have since won distinction. To quote them in the accidental order in which I find them in the table of contents, where they are arranged by the alphabetical order of the several papers, the Miscellany contributors were Edward Everett, George Lunt, Nathan Hale, Jr., Nathaniel Hawthorne, N.P. Willis, W.W. Story, J.R. Lowell, C.N. Emerson, Alexander H. Everett, Sarah P. Hale, W.A. Jones, Cornelius Matthews, Mrs. Kirkland, J.W. Ingraham, H.T. Tuckerman, Evart A. Duyckinck, Francis A. Durivage, Mrs. J. Webb, Charles F. Powell, Charles W. Storey, Lucretia P. Hale, Charles F. Briggs, William E. Channing, Charles Lanman, G.H. Hastings, and Elizabeth B. Barrett, now Mrs. Browning, some of whose earliest poems were published in this magazine. These are all the contributors whose names appear, excepting the writers of a few verses. They furnished nine tenths of the contents of the magazine. The two Everetts, Powell, William Story, and my brother, who was the editor, were the principal contributors. And I am tempted to say that I think they all put some of their best work upon this magazine. The misfortune of the Miscellany, I suppose, was that its publishers had no capital. They had to resort to the claptraps of fashion-plates and other engravings, in the hope of forcing an immediate sale upon persons who, caring for fashion-plates, did not care for the literary character of the enterprise. It gave a very happy escape-pipe, however, for the high spirits of some of us who had just left college, and, through my brother's kindness, I was sometimes permitted to contribute to the journal. In memory of those early days of authorship, I select "The South American Editor" to publish here. For the benefit of the New York Observer, I will state that the story is not true. And lest any should complain that it advocates elopements, I beg to observe, in the seriousness of mature life, that the proposed elopement did not succeed, and that the parties who proposed it are represented as having no guardians or keepers but themselves. The article was first published in 1842.] * * * * * It is now more than six years since I received the following letter from an old classmate of mine, Harry Barry, who had been studying divinity, and was then a settled minister. It was an answer to a communication I had sent him the week before. "TOPSHAM, R.I. January 22, 1836. "To say the truth, my dear George, your letter startled me a little. To think that I, scarcely six months settled in the profession, should be admitted so far into the romance of it as to unite forever two young runaways like yourself and Miss Julia What's-her-name is at least curious. But, to give you your due, you have made a strong case of it, and as Miss ---- (what is her name, I have not yours at hand) is not under any real guardianship, I do not see but I am perfectly justified in complying with your rather odd request. You see I make a conscientious matter of it. "Write me word when it shall be, and I will be sure to be ready. Jane is of course in my counsels, and she will make your little wife feel as much at home as in her father's parlor. Trust us for secrecy. "I met her last week--" But the rest of the letter has nothing to do with the story. The elopement alluded to in it (if the little transaction deserves so high-sounding a name) was, in every sense of the words, strictly necessary. Julia Wentworth had resided for years with her grandfather, a pragmatic old gentleman, to whom from pure affection she had long yielded an obedience which he would have had no right to extort, and which he was sometimes disposed to abuse. He had declared in the most ingenuous manner that she should never marry with his consent any man of less fortune than her own would be; and on his consent rested the prospect of her inheriting his property. Julia and I, however, care little for money now, we cared still less then; and her own little property and my own little salary made us esteem ourselves entirely independent of the old gentleman and his will. His intention respecting the poor girl's marriage was thundered in her ears at least once a week, so that we both knew that I had no need to make court to him, indeed, I had never seen him, always having met her in walking, or in the evening at party, spectacle, concert, or lecture. He had lately been more domineering than usual, and I had but little difficulty in persuading the dear girl to let me write to Harry Barry, to make the arrangement to which he assented in the letter which I have copied above. The reasoning which I pressed upon her is obvious. We loved each other,--the old gentleman could not help that; and as he managed to make us very uncomfortable in Boston, in the existing state of affairs, we naturally came to the conclusion that the sooner we changed that state the better. Our excursion to Topsham would, we supposed, prove a very disagreeable business to him; but we knew it would result very agreeably for us, and so, though with a good deal of maidenly compunction and granddaughterly compassion on Julia's part, we outvoted him. I have said that I had no fortune to enable me to come near the old gentleman's _beau ideal_ of a grandson-in-law. I was then living on my salary as a South American editor. Does the reader know what that is? The South American editor of a newspaper has the uncontrolled charge of its South American news. Read any important commercial paper for a month, and at the end of it tell me if you have any clear conception of the condition of the various republics (!) of South America. If you have, it is because that journal employs an individual for the sole purpose of setting them in the clearest order before you, and that individual is its South American editor. The general-news editor of the paper will keep the run of all the details of all the histories of all the rest of the world, but he hardly attempts this in addition. If he does, he fails. It is therefore necessary, from the most cogent reasons, that any American news office which has a strong regard for the consistency or truth of its South American intelligence shall employ some person competent to take the charge which I held in the establishment of the Boston Daily Argus at the time of which I am speaking. Before that enterprising paper was sold, I was its "South American man"; this being my only employment, excepting that by a special agreement, in consideration of an addition to my salary, I was engaged to attend to the news from St. Domingo, Guatemala, and Mexico.[F] Monday afternoon, just a fortnight after I received Harry Barry's letter, in taking my afternoon walk round the Common, I happened to meet Julia. I always walked in the same direction when I was alone. Julia always preferred to go the other way; it was the only thing in which we differed. When we were together I always went her way of course, and liked it best. I had told her, long before, all about Harry's letter, and the dear girl in this walk, after a little blushing and sighing, and half faltering and half hesitating and feeling uncertain, yielded to my last and warmest persuasions, and agreed to go to Mrs. Pollexfen's ball that evening, ready to leave it with me in my buggy sleigh, for a three hours' ride to Topsham, where we both knew Harry would be waiting for us. I do not know how she managed to get through tea that evening with her lion of a grandfather, for she could not then cover her tearful eyes with a veil as she did through the last half of our walk together. I know that I got through my tea and such like ordinary affairs by skipping them. I made all my arrangements, bade Gage and Streeter be ready with the sleigh at my lodgings (fortunately only two doors from Mrs. Pollexfen's) at half-past nine o'clock, and was the highest spirited of men when, on returning to those lodgings myself at eight o'clock, I found the following missives from the Argus office, which had been accumulating through the afternoon. No. 1. "4 o'clock, P.M. "DEAR SIR:--The southern mail, just in, brings Buenos Ayres papers six days later, by the Medora, at Baltimore. "In haste, J.C." (Mr. C. was the gentleman who opened the newspapers, and arranged the deaths and marriages; he always kindly sent for me when I was out of the way.) No. 2. "5 o'clock, P.M. "DEAR SIR:--The U.S. ship Preble is in at Portsmouth; latest from Valparaiso. The mail is not sorted. "Yours, J.D." (Mr. D. arranged the ship news for the Argus.) No. 3. "6 o'clock, p.m. "DEAR SIR:--I boarded, this morning, off Cape Cod, the Blunderhead, from Carthagena, and have a week's later papers. "Truly yours, J.E." (Mr. E. was the enterprising commodore of our news-boats.) No. 4. "6-1/4 o'clock, P.M. "DEAR SIR:--I have just opened accidentally the enclosed letter, from our correspondent at Panama. You will see that it bears a New Orleans post-mark. I hope it may prove exclusive. "Yours, J.F." (Mr. F. was general editor of the Argus.) No. 5. "6-1/2 o'clock, P.M. "DEAR SIR:--A seaman, who appears to be an intelligent man, has arrived this morning at New Bedford, and says he has later news of the rebellion in Ecuador than any published. The Rosina (his vessel) brought no papers. I bade him call at your room at eight o'clock, which he promised to do. "Truly yours, J.G." (Mr. G. was clerk in the Argus counting-room.) No 6. "7-1/2 o'clock, P.M. "Dear Sir:--The papers by the Ville de Lyon, from Havre, which I have just received, mention the reported escape of M. Bonpland from Paraguay, the presumed death of Dr. Francia, the probable overthrow of the government, the possible establishment of a republic, and a great deal more than I understand in the least. "These papers had not come to hand when I wrote you this afternoon. I have left them on your desk at the office. "In haste, J.F." I was taken all aback by this mass of odd-looking little notes. I had spent the afternoon in drilling Singelton, the kindest of friends, as to what he should do in any probable contingency of news of the next forty-eight hours, for I did not intend to be absent on a wedding tour even longer than that time; but I felt that Singleton was entirely unequal to such a storm of intelligence as this; and, as I hurried down to the office, my chief sensation was that of gratitude that the cloud had broken before I was out of the way; for I knew I could do a great deal in an hour, and I had faith that I might slur over my digest as quickly as possible, and be at Mrs. Pollexfen's within the time arranged. I rushed into the office in that state of zeal in which a man may do anything in almost no time. But first, I had to go into the conversation-room, and get the oral news from my sailor; then Mr. H.; from one of the little news-boats, came to me in high glee, with some Venezuela Gazettes, which he had just extorted from a skipper, who, with great plausibility, told him that he knew his vessel had brought no news, for she never had before. (N.B. In this instance she was the only vessel to sail, after a three months' blockade.) And then I had handed to me by Mr. J., one of the commercial gentlemen, a private letter from Rio Janeiro, which had been lent him. After these delays, with full materials, I sprang to work--read, read, read; wonder, wonder, wonder; guess, guess, guess; scratch, scratch, scratch; and scribble, scribble, scribble, make the only transcript I can give of the operations which followed. At first, several of the other gentlemen in the room sat around me; but soon Mr. C., having settled the deaths and marriages, and the police and municipal reporters immediately after him, screwed out their lamps and went home; then the editor himself, then the legislative reporters, then the commercial editors, then the ship-news conductor, and left me alone. I envied them that they got through so much earlier than usual, but scratched on, only interrupted by the compositors coming in for the pages of my copy as I finished them; and finally, having made my last translation from the last _Boletin Extraordinario_, sprang up, shouting, "Now for Mrs. P.'s," and looked at my watch. It was half past one![G] I thought of course it had stopped,--no; and my last manuscript page was numbered twenty-eight! Had I been writing there five hours? Yes! Reader, when you are an editor, with a continent's explosions to describe, you will understand how one may be unconscious of the passage of time. I walked home, sad at heart. There was no light in all Mr. Wentworth's house; there was none in any of Mrs. Pollexfen's windows;[H] and the last carriage of her last relation had left her door. I stumbled up stairs in the dark, and threw myself on my bed. What should I say, what could I say, to Julia? Thus pondering, I fell asleep. If I were writing a novel, I should say that, at a late hour the next day, I listlessly drew aside the azure curtains of my couch, and languidly rang a silver bell which stood on my dressing-table, and received from a page dressed in an Oriental costume the notes and letters which had been left for me since morning, and the newspapers of the day. I am not writing a novel. The next morning, about ten o'clock, I arose and went down to breakfast. As I sat at the littered table which every one else had left, dreading to attack my cold coffee and toast, I caught sight of the morning papers, and received some little consolation from them. There was the Argus with its three columns and a half of "Important from South America," while none of the other papers had a square of any intelligibility excepting what they had copied from the Argus the day before. I felt a grim smile creeping over my face as I observed this signal triumph of our paper, and ventured to take a sip of the black broth as I glanced down my own article to see if there were any glaring misprints in it. Before I took the second sip, however, a loud peal at the door-bell announced a stranger, and, immediately after, a note was brought in for me which I knew was in Julia's hand-writing. "DEAR GEORGE:--Don't be angry; it was not my fault, really it was not. Grandfather came home just as I was leaving last night, and was so angry, and said I should not go to the party, and I had to sit with him all the evening. Do write to me or let me see you; do something--" What a load that note took off my mind! And yet, what must the poor girl have suffered! Could the old man suspect? Singleton was true to me as steel, I knew. He could not have whispered,--nor Barry; out that Jane, Barry's wife. O woman! woman! what newsmongers they are! Here were Julia and I, made miserable for life, perhaps, merely that Jane Barry might have a good story to tell. What right had Barry to a wife? Not four years out of college, and hardly settled in his parish. To think that I had been fool enough to trust even him with the particulars of my all-important secret! But here I was again interrupted, coffee-cup still full, toast still untasted, by another missive. "Tuesday morning. "SIR:--I wish to see you this morning. Will you call upon me, or appoint a time and place where I may meet you? "Yours, JEDEDIAH WENTWORTH." "Send word by the bearer." "Tell Mr. Wentworth I will call at his house at eleven o'clock." The cat was certainly out; Mrs. Barry had told, or some one else had, who I did not know and hardly cared. The scene was to come now, and I was almost glad of it. Poor Julia! what a time she must have had with the old bear! * * * * * At eleven o'clock I was ushered into Mr. Wentworth's sitting-room. Julia was there, but before I had even spoken to her the old gentleman came bustling across the room, with his "Mr. Hackmatack, I suppose"; and then followed a formal introduction between me and her, which both of us bore with the most praiseworthy fortitude and composure, neither evincing, even by a glance, that we had ever seen or heard of each other before. Here was another weight off my mind and Julia's. I had wronged poor Mrs. Barry. The secret was not out--what could he want? It very soon appeared. After a minute's discussion of the weather, the snow, and the thermometer, the old gentleman drew up his chair to mine, with "I think, sir, you are connected with the Argus office?" "Yes, sir; I am its South American editor.' "Yes!" roared the old man, in a sudden rage. "Sir, I wish South America was sunk in the depths of the sea!" "I am sure I do, sir," replied I, glancing at Julia, who did not, however, understand me. I had not fully passed out of my last night's distress. My sympathizing zeal soothed the old gentleman a little, and he said more coolly, in an undertone: "Well, sir, you are well informed, no doubt; tell me, in strict secrecy, sir, between you and me, do you--do you place full credit--entire confidence in the intelligence in this morning's paper?" "Excuse me, sir; what paper do you allude to? Ah! the Argus, I see. Certainly, sir; I have not the least doubt that it is perfectly correct." "No doubt, sir! Do you mean to insult me?--Julia, I told you so; he says there is no doubt it is true. Tell me again there is some mistake, will you?" The poor girl had been trying to soothe him with the constant remark of uninformed people, that the newspapers are always in the wrong. He turned from her, and rose from his chair in a positive rage. She was half crying. I never saw her more distressed. What did all this mean? Were one, two, or all of us crazy? It soon appeared. After pacing the length of the room once or twice, Wentworth came up to me again, and, attempting to appear cool, said between his closed lips: "Do you say you have no doubt that Rio Janeiro is strictly blockaded?" "Not the slightest in the world," said I, trying to seem unconcerned. "Not the slightest, sir? What are you so impudent and cool about it for? Do you think you are talking of the opening of a rose-bud or the death of a mosquito? Have you no sympathy with the sufferings of a fellow-creature? Why, sir!" and the old man's teeth chattered as he spoke, "I have five cargoes of flour on their way to Rio, and their captains will--Damn it, sir, I shall lose the whole venture." The secret was out. The old fool had been sending flour to Rio, knowing as little of the state of affairs there as a child. "And do you really mean, sir," continued the old man, "that there is an embargo in force in Monte Video?" "Certainly, sir; but I'm very sorry for it." "Sorry for it! of course you are;--and that all foreigners are sent out of Buenos Ayres?" "Undoubtedly, sir. I wish--" "Who does not wish so? Why, sir, my corresponding friends there are half across the sea by this time. I wish Rosas was in--and that the Indians have risen near Maranham?" "Undoubtedly, sir." "Undoubtedly! I tell you, sir, I have two vessels waiting for cargoes of India-rubbers there, under a blunder-headed captain, who will do nothing he has not been bidden to,--obey his orders if he breaks his owners. You smile, sir? Why, I should have made thirty thousand dollars this winter, sir, by my India-rubbers, if we had not had this devilish mild, open weather, you and Miss Julia there have been praising so. But next winter must be a severe one, and with those India-rubbers I should have made--But now those Indians,--pshaw! And a revolution in Chili?" "Yes, sir." "No trade there! And in Venezuela?" "Yes, sir" "Yes, sir; yes, sir; yes, sir; yes, sir! Sir, I am ruined. Say 'Yes, sir,' to that. I have thirteen vessels at this moment in the South American trade, sir; say 'Yes, sir,' to that. Half of them will be taken by the piratical scoundrels; say 'Yes, sir,' to that. Their insurance will not cover them; say 'Yes, sir,' to that. The other half will forfeit their cargoes, or sell them for next to nothing; say 'Yes, sir,' to that. I tell you I am a ruined man, and I wish the South America, and your daily Argus, and you--" Here the old gentleman's old-school breeding got the better of his rage, and he sank down in his arm-chair, and, bursting into tears, said: "Excuse me, sir,--excuse me, sir,--I am too warm." We all sat for a few moments in silence, but then I took my share of the conversation. I wish you could have seen the old man's face light up little by little, as I showed him that to a person who understood the politics and condition of the mercurial country with which he had ignorantly attempted to trade, his condition was not near so bad as he thought it; that though one port was blockaded, another was opened; that though one revolution thwarted him, a few weeks would show another which would favor him; that the goods which, as he saw, would be worthless at the port to which he had sent them, would be valuable elsewhere; that the vessels which would fail in securing the cargoes he had ordered could secure others; that the very revolutions and wars which troubled him would require in some instances large government purchases, perhaps large contracts for freight, possibly even for passage,--his vessels might be used for transports; that the very excitement of some districts might be made to turn to our advantage; that, in short, there were a thousand chances open to him which skilful agents could readily improve. I reminded him that a quick run in a clipper schooner could carry directions to half these skippers of his, to whom, with an infatuation which I could not and cannot conceive, he had left no discretion, and who indeed were to be pardoned if they could use none, seeing the tumult as they did with only half an eye. I talked to him for half an hour, and went into details to show that my plans were not impracticable. The old gentleman grew brighter and brighter, and Julia, as I saw, whenever I stole a glance across the room, felt happier and happier. The poor girl had had a hard time since he had first heard this news whispered the evening before. His difficulties were not over, however; for when I talked to him of the necessity of sending out one or two skilful agents immediately to take the personal superintendence of his complicated affairs, the old man sighed, and said he had no skilful agents to send. With his customary suspicion, he had no partners, and had never intrusted his clerks with any general insight into his business. Besides, he considered them all, like his captains, blunder-headed to the last degree. I believe it was an idea of Julia's, communicated to me in an eager, entreating glance, which induced me to propose myself as one of these confidential agents, and to be responsible for the other. I thought, as I spoke, of Singleton, to whom I knew I could explain my plans in full, and whose mercantile experience would make him a valuable coadjutor. The old gentleman accepted my offer eagerly. I told him that twenty-four hours were all I wanted to prepare myself. He immediately took measures for the charter of two little clipper schooners which lay in port then; and before two days were past, Singleton and I were on our voyage to South America. Imagine, if you can, how these two days were spent. Then, as now, I could prepare for any journey in twenty minutes, and of course I had no little time at my disposal for last words with Mr. and--Miss Wentworth. How I won on the old gentleman's heart in those two days! How he praised me to Julia, and then, in as natural affection, how he praised her to me! And how Julia and I smiled through our tears, when, in the last good-bys, he said he was too old to write or read any but business letters, and charged me and her to keep up a close correspondence, which on one side should tell all that I saw and did, and on the other hand remind me of all at home. * * * * * I have neither time nor room to give the details of that South American expedition. I have no right to. There were revolutions accomplished in those days without any object in the world's eyes; and, even in mine, only serving to sell certain cargoes of long cloths and flour. The details of those outbreaks now told would make some patriotic presidents tremble in their seats; and I have no right to betray confidence at whatever rate I purchased it. Usually, indeed, my feats and Singleton's were only obtaining the best information and communicating the most speedy instructions to Mr. Wentworth's vessels, which were made to move from port to port with a rapidity and intricacy of movement which none besides us two understood in the least. It was in that expedition that I travelled almost alone across the continent. I was, I think, the first white man who ever passed through the mountain path of Xamaulipas, now so famous in all the Chilian picturesque annuals. I was carrying directions for some vessels which had gone round the Cape; and what a time Burrows and Wheatland and I had a week after, when we rode into the public square of Valparaiso shouting, "Muera la Constitucion,--Viva Libertad!" by our own unassisted lungs actually raising a rebellion, and, which was of more importance, a prohibition on foreign flour, while Bahamarra and his army were within a hundred miles of us. How those vessels came up the harbor, and how we unloaded them, knowing that at best our revolution could only last five days! But as I said, I must be careful, or I shall be telling other people's secrets. The result of that expedition was that those thirteen vessels all made good outward voyages, and all but one or two eventually made profitable home voyages. When I returned home, the old gentleman received me with open arms. I had rescued, as he said, a large share of that fortune which he valued so highly. To say the truth, I felt and feel that he had planned his voyages so blindly, that, without some wiser head than his, they would never have resulted in anything. They were his last, as they were almost his first, South American ventures. He returned to his old course of more methodical trading for the few remaining years of his life. They were, thank Heaven, the only taste of mercantile business which I ever had. Living as I did, in the very sunshine of Mr. Went worth's favor, I went through the amusing farce of paying my addresses to Julia in approved form, and in due time received the old gentleman's cordial assent to our union, and his blessing upon it. In six months after my return, we were married; the old man as happy as a king. He would have preferred a little that the ceremony should have been performed by Mr. B----, his friend and pastor, but readily assented to my wishes to call upon a dear and early friend of my own. Harry Barry came from Topsham and performed the ceremony, "assisted by Rev. Mr. B." G.H. ARGUS COTTAGE, April 1, 1842. THE OLD AND THE NEW, FACE TO FACE. A THUMB-NAIL SKETCH. [This essay was published in Sartain's Magazine, in 1852, as "A Thumb-nail Sketch," having received one of ten premiums which Mr. Sartain offered to encourage young writers. It had been written a few years earlier, some time before the studies of St. Paul's life by Conybeare and Howson, now so well known, were made public. The chronology of my essay does not precisely agree with that of these distinguished scholars. But I make no attempt now either to recast the essay or to discuss the delicate and complicated questions which belong to the chronology of Paul's life or to that of Nero; for there is no question with regard to the leading facts. At the end of twenty years I may again express the wish that some master competent to the greatest themes might take the trial of Paul as the subject of a picture.] * * * * * In a Roman audience-chamber, the old civilization and the new civilization brought out, at the very birth of the new, their chosen champions. In that little scene, as in one of Rembrandt's thumb-nail studies for a great picture, the lights and shades are as distinct as they will ever be in the largest scene of history. The champions were perfect representatives of the parties. And any man, with the soul of a man, looking on, could have prophesied the issue of the great battle from the issue of that contest. The old civilization of the Roman Empire, just at that time, had reached a point which, in all those outward forms which strike the eye, would regard our times as mean indeed. It had palaces of marble, where even modern kings would build of brick with a marble front to catch the eye; it counted its armies by thousands, where we count ours by hundreds; it surmounted long colonnades with its exquisite statues, for which modern labor digs deep in ruined cities, because it cannot equal them from its own genius; it had roads, which are almost eternal, and which, for their purposes, show a luxury of wealth and labor that our boasted locomotion cannot rival. These are its works of a larger scale. And if you enter the palaces, you find pictures of matchless worth, rich dresses which modern looms cannot rival, and sumptuous furniture at which modern times can only wonder. The outside of the ancient civilization is unequalled by the outside of ours, and for centuries will be unequalled by it. We have not surpassed it there. And we see how it attained this distinction, such as it was. It came by the constant concentration of power. Power in few hands is the secret of its display and glory. And thus that form of civilization attained its very climax in the moment of the greatest unity of the Roman Empire. When the Empire nestled into rest, after the convulsions in which it was born; when a generation had passed away of those who had been Roman citizens; when a generation arose, which, excepting one man, the emperor, was a nation of Roman subjects,--then the Empire was at its height of power, its centralization was complete, the system of its civilization was at the zenith of its success. At that moment it was that there dawned at Rome the first gray morning-light of the new civilization. At that moment it was that that short scene, in that one chamber, contrasted the two as clearly as they can be contrasted even in long centuries. There is one man, the emperor, who is a precise type, an exact representative, of the old. That man is brought face to face with another who is a precise type, an exact representative, of the new. Only look at them as they stand there! The man who best illustrates the old civilization owes to it the most careful nurture. From his childhood he has been its petted darling. Its principal is concentration under one head. He is that head. When he is a child, men know he will be emperor of the world. The wise men of the world teach him; the poets of the world flatter him; the princes of the world bow to him. He is trained in all elegant accomplishments; he is led forward through a graceful, luxurious society. His bearing is that of an emperor; his face is the face of fine physical beauty. Imagine for yourself the sensual countenance of a young Bacchus, beautiful as Milton's devils; imagine him clad in splendor before which even English luxury is mean; arrayed in jewels, to which even Eastern pomp is tinsel; imagine an expression of tired hate, of low, brutal lust, hanging on those exquisite licentious features, and you have before you the type of Roman civilization. It is the boy just budding into manhood, whom later times will name as the lowest embodiment of meanness and cruelty! You are looking upon Nero! Not only is this man an exact type of the ancient civilization, its central power, its outside beauty, but the precise time of this sketch of ours is the exact climax of the _moral_ results of the ancient civilization. We are to look at Nero just when he has returned to Rome from a Southern journey.[I] That journey had one object, which succeeded. To his after-life it gives one memory, which never dies. He has travelled to his beautiful country palace, that he might kill his mother! We can picture to ourselves Agrippina, by knowing that she was Nero's mother, and our picture will not fail in one feature. She has all the beauty of sense, all the attraction of passion. Indeed, she is the Empress of Rome, because she is queen of beauty--and of lust. She is most beautiful among the beautiful of Rome; but what is that beauty of feature in a state of whose matrons not one is virtuous, of whose daughters not one is chaste? It is the beauty of sense alone, fit adornment of that external grandeur, of that old society. In the infancy of her son, this beautiful Agrippina consulted a troop of fortune-tellers as to his fate; and they told her that he would live to be Emperor of Rome, and to kill his mother. With all the ecstasy of a mother's pride fused so strangely with all the excess of an ambitious woman's love of power, she cried in answer, "He may kill me, if only he rules Rome!"[J] She spoke her own fate in these words. Here is the account of it by Tacitus. Nero had made all the preparations; had arranged a barge, that of a sudden its deck might fall heavily upon those in the cabin, and crush them in an instant. He meant thus to give to the murder which he planned the aspect of an accident. To this fatal vessel he led Agrippina. He talked with her affectionately and gravely on the way; "and when they parted at the lakeside, with his old boyish familiarity he pressed her closely to his heart, either to conceal his purpose, or because the last sight of a mother, on the eve of death, touched even his cruel nature, and then bade her farewell." Just at the point upon the lake where he had directed, as the Empress sat in her cabin talking with her attendants, the treacherous deck was let fall upon them all. But the plot failed. She saw dead at her feet one of her favorites, crushed by the sudden blow. But she had escaped it. She saw that death awaited them all upon the vessel. The men around sprang forward, ready to do their master's bidding in a less clumsy and more certain way. But the Empress, with one of her attendants, sprang from the treacherous vessel into the less treacherous waves. And there, this faithful friend of hers, with a woman's wit and a woman's devotion, drew on her own head the blows and stabs of the murderers above, by crying, as if in drowning, "Save me, I am Nero's mother!" Uttering those words of self-devotion, she was killed by the murderers above, while the Empress, in safer silence, buoyed up by fragments of the wreck, floated to the shore. Nero had failed thus in secret crime, and yet he knew that he could not stop here. And the next day after his mother's deliverance, he sent a soldier to her palace, with a guard; and there, where she was deserted even by her last attendant, without pretence of secrecy, they put to death the daughter and the mother of a Cæsar. And Nero only waits to look with a laugh upon the beauty of the corpse, before he returns to resume his government at Rome. That moment was the culminating moment of the ancient civilization. It is complete in its centralizing power; it is complete in its external beauty; it is complete in its crime. Beautiful as Eden to the eye, with luxury, with comfort, with easy indolence to all; but dust and ashes beneath the surface! It is corrupted at the head! It is corrupted at the heart! There is nothing firm! This is the moment which I take for our little picture. At this very moment there is announced the first germ of the new civilization. In the very midst of this falsehood, there sounds one voice of truth; in the very arms of this giant, there plays the baby boy who is to cleave him to the ground. This Nero slowly returns to the city. He meets the congratulations of a senate, which thank him and the gods that he has murdered his own mother. With the agony of an undying conscience torturing him, he strives to avert care by amusement. He hopes to turn the mob from despising him by the grandeur of their public entertainments. He enlarges for them the circus. He calls unheard-of beasts to be baited and killed for their enjoyment. The finest actors rant, the sweetest musicians sing, that Nero may forget his mother, and that his people may forget him. At that period, the statesmen who direct the machinery of affairs inform him that his personal attention is required one morning for a state trial, to be argued before the Emperor in person. Must the Emperor be there? May he not waste the hours in the blandishments of lying courtiers, or the honeyed falsehoods of a mistress? If he chooses thus to postpone the audience, be it so; Seneca, Burrhus, and his other counsellors will obey. But the time will come when the worn-out boy will be pleased some morning with the almost forgotten majesty of state. The time comes one day. Worn out by the dissipation of the week, fretted by some blunder of his flatterers, he sends for his wiser counsellors, and bids them lead him to the audience-chamber, where he will attend to these cases which need an Emperor's decision. It is at that moment that we are to look upon him. He sits there, upon that unequalled throne, his face sickly pale with boyish debauchery; his young fore head worn with the premature sensual wrinkles of lust; and his eyes bloodshot with last night's intemperance. He sits there, the Emperor-boy, vainly trying to excite himself, and forget her, in the blazonry of that pomp, and bids them call in the prisoner. A soldier enters, at whose side the prisoner has been chained for years. This soldier is a tried veteran of the Prætorian cohorts. He was selected, that from him this criminal could not escape; and for that purpose they have been inseparably bound. But, as he leads that other through the hall, he looks at him with a regard and earnestness which say he is no criminal to him. Long since, the criminal has been the guardian of his keeper. Long since, the keeper has cared for the prisoner with all the ardor of a new-found son's affection. They lead that gray-haired captive forward, and with his eagle eye he glances keenly round the hall. That flashing eye has ere now bade monarchs quail; and those thin lips have uttered words which shall make the world ring till the last moment of the world shall come. The stately Eastern captive moves unawed through the assembly, till he makes a subject's salutation to the Emperor-judge who is to hear him. And when, then, the gray-haired sage kneels before the sensual boy, you see the prophet of the new civilization kneel before the monarch of the old! You see Paul make a subject's formal reverence to Nero![K] Let me do justice to the court which is to try him. In that judgment-hall there are not only the pomp of Rome, and its crime; we have also the best of its wisdom. By the dissolute boy, Nero, there stands the prime minister Seneca, the chief of the philosophers of his time; "Seneca the saint," cry the Christians of the next century. We will own him to be Seneca the wise, Seneca almost the good. To this sage had been given the education of the monster who was to rule the world. This sage had introduced him into power, had restrained his madness when he could, and with his colleague had conducted the general administration of the Empire with the greatest honor, while the boy was wearing out his life in debauchery in the palace. Seneca dared say more to Nero, to venture more with him, than did any other man. For the young tiger was afraid of his old master long after he had tasted blood. Yet Seneca's system was a cowardly system. It was the best of Roman morality and Greek philosophy, and still it was mean. His daring was the bravest of the men of the old civilization. He is the type of their excellences, as is Nero the model of their power and their adornments. And yet all that Seneca's daring could venture was to seduce the baby-tyrant into the least injurious of tyrannies. From the plunder of a province he would divert him by the carnage of the circus. From the murder of a senator he could lure him by some new lust at home. From the ruin of the Empire, he could seduce him by diverting him with the ruin of a noble family. And Seneca did this with the best of motives. He said he used all the power in his hands, and he thought he did. He was one of those men of whom all times have their share. The bravest of his time, he satisfied himself with alluring the beardless Emperor by petty crime from public wrong; he could flatter him to the expedient. He dared not order him to the right. But Seneca knew what was right. Seneca also had a well-trained conscience, which told him of right and of wrong. Seneca's brother, Gallio, had saved Paul's life when a Jewish mob would have dragged him to pieces in Corinth; and the legend is that Seneca and Paul had corresponded with each other before they stood together in Nero's presence, the one as counsellor, the other as the criminal.[L] When Paul arose from that formal salutation, when the apostle of the new civilization spoke to the tottering monarch of the old, if there had been one man in that assemblage, could he have failed to see that that was a turning-point in the world's history? Before him in that little hall, in that little hour, was passing the scene which for centuries would be acted out upon the larger stage. Faith on the one side, before expediency and cruelty on the other! Paul before Seneca and Nero! He was ready to address Nero, with the eloquence and vehemence which for years had been demanding utterance. He stood at length before the baby Cæsar, to whose tribunal he had appealed from the provincial court of a doubting Festus and a trembling Agrippa. And who shall ask what words the vigorous Christian spoke to the dastard boy! Who that knows the eloquence which rung out on the ears of astonished Stoics at Athens, which commanded the incense and the hecatombs of wandering peasants in Asia, which stilled the gabbling clamor of a wild mob at Jerusalem,--who will doubt the tone in which Paul spoke to Nero! The boy quailed for the moment before the man! The gilded dotard shrunk back from the home truths of the new, young, vigorous faith: the ruler of a hundred legions was nothing before the God-commissioned prisoner. No; though at this audience all men forsook Paul, as he tells us; though not one of the timid converts were there, but the soldier chained at his side,--still he triumphed over Nero and Nero's minister. From that audience-hall those three men retire. The boy, grown old in lust, goes thence to be an hour alone, to ponder for an hour on this God, this resurrection, and this truth, of which the Jew, in such uncourtly phrase, has harangued him. To be alone, until the spectre of a dying mother rises again to haunt him, to persecute him and drive him forth to his followers and feasters, where he will try to forget Paul and the Saviour and God, where he would be glad to banish them forever. He does not banish them forever! Henceforward, whenever that spectre of a mother comes before him, it must re-echo the words of God and eternity which Paul has spoken. Whenever the chained and bleeding captive of the arena bends suppliant before him, there must return the memory of the only captive who was never suppliant before him, and his words of sturdy power! And Seneca? Seneca goes home with the mortified feelings of a great man who has detected his own meanness. We all know the feeling; for all God's children might be great, and it is with miserable mortification that we detect ourselves in one or another pettiness. Seneca goes home to say: "This wild _Easterner_ has rebuked the Emperor as I have so often wanted to rebuke him. He stood there, as I have wanted to stand, a man before a brute. "He said what I have thought, and have been afraid to say. Downright, straightforward, he told the Emperor truths as to Rome, as to man, and as to his vices, which I have longed to tell him. He has done what I am afraid to do. He has dared this, which I have dallied with, and left undone. _What is the mystery of his power?_" Seneca did not know. Nero did not know. The "Eastern mystery" was in presence before them, and they knew it not! What was the mystery of Paul's power? Paul leaves them with the triumph of a man who has accomplished the hope of long years. Those solemn words of his, "After that, I _must_ also see Rome," expressed the longing of years, whose object now, in part, at least, is gratified. He must see Rome! It is God's mission to him that he see Rome and its Emperor. Paul has seen with the spirit's eye what we have seen since in history,--that he is to be the living link by which the electric fire of life should pass first from religious Asia to quicken this dead, brutish Europe. He knows that he is God's messenger to bear this mystery of life eternal from the one land to the other, and to unfold it there. And to-day has made real, in fact, this his inward confidence. To-day has put the seal of fact on that vision of his, years since, when he first left his Asiatic home. A prisoner in chains, still he has to-day seen the accomplishment of the vows, hopes, and resolutions of that field of Troy, most truly famous from the night he spent there. There was another of these hours when God brings into one spot the acts which shall be the _argument_ of centuries of history. Paul had come down there in his long Asiatic journeys,--Eastern in his lineage, Eastern in his temperament, Eastern in his outward life, and Eastern in his faith,--to that narrow Hellespont, which for long ages has separated East from West, tore madly up the chains which would unite them, overwhelmed even love when it sought to intermarry them, and left their cliffs frowning eternal hate from shore to shore. Paul stood upon the Asian shore and looked across upon the Western. There were Macedonia and the hills of Greece, here Troas and the ruins of Ilium. The names speak war. The blue Hellespont has no voice but separation, except to Paul. But to Paul, sleeping, it might be, on the tomb of Achilles, that night the "man of Macedonia" appears, and bids him come over to avenge Asia, to pay back the debt of Troy. "Come over _and help us._" Give us life, for we gave you death. Give us help for we gave you ruin. Paul was not disobedient to the heavenly vision. The Christian Alexander, he crosses to Macedon with the words of peace instead of war,--the Christian shepherd of the people, he carries to Greece, from Troy, the tidings of salvation instead of carnage, of charity instead of license. And he knows that to Europe it is the beginning of her new civilization, it in the dawn of her new warfare, of her new poetry, of her reign of heroes who are immortal. That _faith_ of his, now years old, has this day received its crowning victory. This day, when he has faced Nero and Seneca together, may well stand in his mind as undoing centuries of bloodshed and of license. And in this effort, and in that spiritual strength which had nerved him in planning it and carrying it through, was the "Asian mystery." Ask what was the secret of Paul's power as he bearded the baby Emperor, and abashed the baby Philosopher? What did he give the praise to, as he left that scene? What was the principle in action there, but faith in the new life, faith in the God who gave it! We do not wonder, as Seneca wondered, that such a man as Paul dared say anything to such a boy as Nero! The absolute courage of the new faith was the motive-power which forced it upon the world. Here were the sternest of morals driven forward with the most ultra bravery. Perfect faith gave perfect courage to the first witnesses. And there was the "mystery" of their victories. And so, in this case, when after a while Seneca again reminded Nero of his captive, poor Nero did not dare but meet him again. Yet, when he met him again in that same judgment-hall, he did not dare hear him long; and we may be sure that there were but few words before, with such affectation of dignity as he could summon, he bade them set the prisoner free. Paul free! The old had faced the new. Each had named its champion. And the new conquers! THE DOT AND LINE ALPHABET. [This sketch was originally published in the Atlantic Monthly for October, 1858, just at the time that the first Atlantic Cable, whose first prattle had been welcomed by the acclamations of a continent, gasped its last under the manipulations of De Sauty. It has since been copied by Mr. Prescott in his valuable hand-book of the electric telegraph. The war, which has taught us all so much, has given a brilliant illustration of the dot and line alphabet, wholly apart from the electric use of it, which will undoubtedly be often repeated. In the movements of our troops under General Foster in North Carolina, Dr. J.B. Upham of Boston, the distinguished medical director in that department, equally distinguished for the success with which he has led forward the musical education of New England, trained a corps of buglers to converse with each other by long and short bugle-notes, and thus to carry information with literal accuracy from point to point at any distance within which the tones of a bugle could be heard. It will readily be seen that there are many occasions in military affairs when such means of conversation might prove of inestimable value. Mr. Tuttle, the astronomer, on duty in the same campaign, made a similar arrangement with long and short flashes of light.] * * * * * Just in the triumph week of that Great Telegraph which takes its name from the Atlantic Monthly, I read in the September number of that journal the revelations of an observer who was surprised to find that he had the power of reading, as they run, the revelations of the wire. I had the hope that he was about to explain to the public the more general use of this instrument,--which, with a stupid fatuity, the public has as yet failed to grasp. Because its signals have been first applied by means of electro-magnetism, and afterwards by means of the chemical power of electricity, the many-headed people refuses to avail itself, as it might do very easily, of the same signals for the simpler transmission of intelligence, whatever the power employed. The great invention of Mr. Morse is his register and alphabet. He himself eagerly disclaims any pretension to the original conception of the use of electricity as an errand-boy. Hundreds of people had thought of that and suggested it: but Morse was the first to give the errand-boy such a written message, that he could not lose it on the way, nor mistake it when he arrived. The public, eager to thank Morse, as he deserves, thanks him for something he did not invent. For this he probably cares very little; nor do I care more. But the public does not thank him for what he did originate,--this invaluable and simple alphabet. Now, as I use it myself in every detail of life, and see every hour how the public might use it, if it chose, I am really sorry for this negligence,--both on the score of his fame, and of general convenience. Please to understand, then, ignorant Reader, that this curious alphabet reduces all the complex machinery of Cadmus and the rest of the writing-masters to characters as simple as can be made by a dot, a space, and a line, variously combined. Thus, the marks .-- designate the letter A. The marks --... designate the letter B. All the other letters are designated in as simple a manner. Now I am stripping myself of one of the private comforts of my life, (but what will one not do for mankind?) when I explain that this simple alphabet need not be confined to electrical signals. _Long_ and _short_ make it all,--and wherever long and short can be combined, be it in marks, sounds, sneezes, fainting-fits, canes, or children, ideas can be conveyed by this arrangement of the long and short together. Only last night I was talking scandal with Mrs. Wilberforce at a summer party at the Hammersmiths. To my amazement, my wife, who scarcely can play "The Fisher's Hornpipe," interrupted us by asking Mrs. Wilberforce if she could give her the idea of an air in "The Butcher of Turin." Mrs. Wilberforce had never heard that opera,--indeed, had never heard of it. My angel-wife was surprised,--stood thrumming at the piano,--wondered she could not catch this very odd bit of discordant accord at all,--but checked herself in her effort, as soon as I observed that her long notes and short notes, in their tum-tee, tee,--tee-tee, tee-tum tum, meant, "He's her brother." The conversation on her side turned from "The Butcher of Turin," and I had just time on the hint thus given me by Mrs. I. to pass a grateful eulogium on the distinguished statesman whom Mrs. Wilberforce, with all a sister's care, had rocked in his baby-cradle,--whom, but for my wife's long and short notes, I should have clumsily abused among the other statesmen of the day. You will see, in an instant, awakening Reader, that it is not the business simply of "operators" in telegraphic dens to know this Morse alphabet, but your business, and that of every man and woman. If our school committees understood the times, it would be taught, even before phonography or physiology, at school. I believe both these sciences now precede the old English alphabet. As I write these words, the bell of the South Congregational strikes dong, dong, dong,--dong, dong, dong, dong,--dong,--dong. Nobody has unlocked the church-door. I know that, for I am locked up in the vestry. The old tin sign, "In case of fire, the key will be found at the opposite house," has long since been taken down, and made into the nose of a water-pot. Yet there is no Goody Two-Shoes locked in. No one except me, and certainly I am not ringing the bell. No! But, thanks to Dr. Channing's Fire Alarm,[M] the bell is informing the South End that there is a fire in District Dong-dong-dong,--that is to say, District No. 3. Before I have explained to you so far, the "Eagle" engine, with a good deal of noise, has passed the house on its way to that fated district. An immense improvement this on the old system, when the engines radiated from their houses in every possible direction, and the fire was extinguished by the few machines whose lines of quest happened to cross each other at the particular place where the child had been building cob-houses out of lucifer-matches in a paper warehouse. Yes, it is a very great improvement. All those persons, like you and me, who have no property in District Dong-dong-dong, can now sit at home at ease;--and little need we think upon the mud above the knees of those who have property in that district and are running to look after it. But for them the improvement only brings misery. You arrive wet, hot/or cold, or both, at the large District No. 3, to find that the lucifer-matches were half a mile away from your store,--and that your own private watchman, even, had not been waked by the working of the distant engines. Wet property holder, as you walk home, consider this. When you are next in the Common Council, vote an appropriation for applying Morse's alphabet of long and short to the bells. Then they can be made to sound intelligibly. Daung ding ding,--ding,--ding daung,--daung daung daung, and so on, will tell you as you wake in the night that it is Mr. B.'s store which is on fire, and not yours, or that it is yours and not his. This is not only a convenience to you and a relief to your wife and family, who will thus be spared your excursions to unavailable and unsatisfactory fires, and your somewhat irritated return,--it will be a great relief to the Fire Department. How placid the operations of a fire where none attend except on business! The various engines arrive, but no throng of distant citizens, men and boys, fearful of the destruction of their all. They have all roused on their pillows to learn that it is No. 530 Pearl Street which is in flames. All but the owner of No. 530 Pearl Street have dropped back to sleep. He alone has rapidly repaired to the scene. That is he, who stands in the uncrowded street with the Chief Engineer, on the deck of No. 18, as she plays away. His property destroyed, the engines retire,--he mentions the amount of his insurance to those persons who represent the daily press, they all retire to their homes,--and the whole is finished as simply, almost, as was his private entry in his day-book the afternoon before.[N] This is what might be, if the magnetic alarm only struck _long_ and _short_, and we had all learned Morse's alphabet. Indeed, there is nothing the bells could not tell, if you would only give them time enough. We have only one chime, for musical purposes, in the town. But, without attempting tunes, only give the bells the Morse alphabet, and every bell in Boston might chant in monotone the words of "Hail Columbia" at length, every Fourth of July. Indeed, if Mr. Barnard should report any day that a discouraged 'prentice-boy had left town for his country home, all the bells could instantly be set to work to speak articulately, in language regarding which the dullest imagination need not be at loss, "Turn again, Higginbottom, Lord Mayor of Boston!" I have suggested the propriety of introducing this alphabet into the primary schools. I need not say I have taught it to my own children,--and I have been gratified to see how rapidly it made head, against the more complex alphabet, in the grammar schools. Of course it does;--an alphabet of two characters matched against one of twenty-six,--or of forty-odd, as the very odd one of the phonotypists employ! On the Franklin-medal day I went to the Johnson-School examination. One of the committee asked a nice girl what was the capital of Brazil. The child looked tired and pale, and, for an instant, hesitated. But, before she had time to commit herself, all answering was rendered impossible by an awful turn of whooping-cough which one of my own sons was seized with,--who had gone to the examination with me. Hawm, hem hem;--hem hem hem;--hem, hem;--hawm, hem hem;--hem hem hem;--hem, hem,--barked the poor child, who was at the opposite extreme of the school-room. The spectators and the committee looked to see him fall dead with a broken blood-vessel. I confess that I felt no alarm, after I observed that some of his gasps were long and some very _staccato_;--nor did pretty little Mabel Warren. She recovered her color,--and, as soon as silence was in the least restored, answered, "_Rio_ is the capital of Brazil,"--as modestly and properly as if she had been taught it in her cradle. They are nothing but children, any of them,--but that afternoon, after they had done all the singing the city needed for its annual entertainment of the singers, I saw Bob and Mabel start for a long expedition into West Roxbury,--and when he came back, I know it was a long featherfew, from her prize school-bouquet, that he pressed in his Greene's "Analysis," with a short frond of maiden's hair. I hope nobody will write a letter to "The Atlantic," to say that these are very trifling uses. The communication of useful information is never trifling. It is as important to save a nice child from mortification on examination-day, as it is to tell Mr. Fremont that he is not elected President. If, however, the reader is distressed, because these illustrations do not seem to his more benighted observation to belong to the big bow-wow strain of human life, let him consider the arrangement which ought to have been made years since, for lee shores, railroad collisions, and that curious class of maritime accidents where one steamer runs into mother under the impression that she is a light house. Imagine the Morse alphabet applied to a steam-whistle, which is often heard five miles. It needs only _long_ and _short_ again. "_Stop Comet_," for instance, when you send it down the railroad line, by the wire, is expressed thus: ... -- . . ....,... . . -- --- . -- Very good message, if Comet happens to be at the telegraph station when it comes! But what if Cornel has gone by? Much good will your trumpery message do then! If, however, you have the wit to sound your long and short on an engine-whistle, thus;--Scre scre, scre; screeee; scre scre; scre scre scre scre scre; scre scre scre,--scre scre; screeeee screeeee; scre; screeeee;--why, then the whole neighborhood, for five miles around, will know that Comet must stop, if only they understand spoken language,--and among others, the engineman of Comet will understand it; and Comet will not run into that wreck of worlds which gives the order,--with the nucleus of hot iron and his tail of five hundred tons of coal.--So, of the signals which fog-bells can give, attached to light-houses. How excellent to have them proclaim through the darkness, "I am Wall "! Or of signals for steamship-engineers. When our friends were on board the "Arabia" the other day, and she and the "Europa" pitched into each other,--as if, on that happy week, all the continents were to kiss and join hands all round,--how great the relief to the passengers on each, if, through every night of their passage, collision had been prevented by this simple expedient! One boat would have screamed, "Europa, Europa, Europa," from night to morning,--and the other, "Arabia, Arabia, Arabia,"--and neither would have been mistaken, as one unfortunately was, for a light-house. The long and short of it is, that whoever can mark distinctions of time can use this alphabet of long-and-short, however he may mark them. It is therefore within the compass of all intelligent beings, except those who are no longer conscious of the passage of time, having exchanged its limitations for the wider sweep of eternity. The illimitable range of this alphabet, however, is not half disclosed when this has been said. Most articulate language addresses itself to one sense, or at most to two, sight and sound. I see, as I write, that the particular illustrations I have given are all of them confined to signals seen or signals heard. But the dot-and-line alphabet, in the few years of its history, has already shown that it is not restricted to these two senses, but makes itself intelligible to all. Its message, of course, is heard as well as read. Any good operator understands the sounds of its ticks upon the flowing strip of paper, as well as when he sees it As he lies in his cot at midnight, he will expound the passing message without striking a light to see it But this is only what may be said of any written language. You can read this article to your wife, or she can read it, as she prefers; that is, she chooses whether it shall address her eye or her ear. But the long-and-short alphabet of Morse and his imitators despises such narrow range. It addresses whichever of the five senses the listener chooses. This fact is illustrated by a curious set of anecdotes,--never yet put in print, I think,--of that critical despatch which in one night announced General Taylor's death to this whole land. Most of the readers of these lines probably read that despatch in the morning's paper. The compositors and editors had read it. To them it was a despatch to the eye. But half the operators at the stations _heard_ it ticked out, by the register stroke, and knew it before they wrote it down for the press. To them it was a despatch to the ear. My good friend Langenzunge had not that resource. He had just been promised, by the General himself (under whom he served at Palo Alto), the office of Superintendent of the Rocky Mountain Lines. He was returning from Washington over the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, on a freight-train, when he heard of the President's danger. Langenzunge loved Old Rough and Ready,--and he felt badly about his own office, too. But his extempore train chose to stop at a forsaken shanty-village on the Potomac, for four mortal hours, at midnight. What does he do, but walk down the line into the darkness, climb a telegraph-post, cut a wire, and applied the two ends to his tongue, to _taste_, at the fatal moment, the words, "Died at half past ten." Poor Langenzunge! he hardly had nerve to solder the wire again. Cogs told me that they had just fitted up the Naguadavick stations with Bain's chemical revolving disk. This disk is charged with a salt of potash, which, when the electric spark passes through it, is changed to Prussian blue. Your despatch is noiselessly written in dark blue dots and lines. Just as the disk started on that fatal despatch, and Cogs bent over it to read, his spirit-lamp blew up,--as the dear things will. They were beside themselves in the lonely, dark office; but, while the men were fumbling for matches, which would not go, Cogs's sister, Nydia, a sweet blind girl, who had learned Bain's alphabet from Dr. Howe at South Boston, bent over the chemical paper, and _smelt_ out the prussiate of potash, as it formed itself in lines and dots to tell the sad story. Almost anybody used to reading the blind books can read the embossed Morse messages with the finger,--and so this message was read at all the midnight way-stations where no night-work is expected, and where the companies do not supply fluid or oil. Within my narrow circle of acquaintance, therefore, there were these simultaneous instances, where the same message was seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt. So universal is the dot-and-line alphabet,--for Bain's is on the same principle as Morse's. The reader sees, therefore, first, that the dot-and-line alphabet can be employed by any being who has command of any long and short symbols,--be they long and short notches, such as Robinson Crusoe kept his accounts with, or long and short waves of electricity, such as these which Valentia is sending across to the Newfoundland bay, so prophetically and appropriately named "The Bay of Bulls." Also, I hope the reader sees that the alphabet can be understood by any intelligent being who has any one of the five senses left him,--by all rational men, that is, excepting the few eyeless deaf persons who have lost both taste and smell in some complete paralysis. The use of Morse's telegraph is by no means confined to the small clique who possess or who understand electrical batteries. It is not only the torpedo or the _Gymnotus electricus_ that can send us messages from the ocean. Whales in the sea can telegraph as well as senators on land, if they will only note the difference between long spoutings and short ones. And they can listen, too. If they will only note the difference between long and short, the eel of Ocean's bottom may feel on his slippery skin the smooth messages of our Presidents, and the catfish, in his darkness, look fearless on the secrets of a Queen. Any beast, bird, fish, or insect, which can discriminate between long and short, may use the telegraph alphabet, if he have sense enough. Any creature, which can hear, smell, taste, feel, or see, may take note of its signals, if he can understand them. A tired listener at church, by properly varying his long yawns and his short ones, may express his opinion of the sermon to the opposite gallery before the sermon is done. A dumb tobacconist may trade with his customers in an alphabet of short-sixes and long-nines. A beleaguered Sebastopol may explain its wants to the relieving army beyond the line of the Chernaya, by the lispings of its short Paixhans and its long twenty-fours. THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. [I had some opportunities, which no other writer for the press had, I believe, of examining the Resolute on her return from that weird voyage which is the most remarkable in the history of the navies of the world. And, as I know of no other printed record of the whole of that voyage than this, which was published in the Boston Daily Advertiser of June 11, 1856, I reprint it here. Readers should remember that the English government abandoned all claim on the vessel; that the American government then bought her of the salvors, refitted her completely, and sent her to England as a present to the Queen. The Queen visited the ship, and accepted the present in person. The Resolute has never since been to sea. I do not load the page with authorities; but I studied the original reports of the Arctic expeditions carefully in preparing the paper, and I believe it to be accurate throughout. The voyage from New London to England, when she was thus returned, is strictly her last voyage. But when this article was printed its name was correct.] * * * * * It was in early spring in 1852, early on the morning of the 21st of April, that the stout English discovery ship Resolute, manned by a large crew, commanded by a most manly man, Henry Kellett, left her moorings in the great river Thames, a little below the old town of London, was taken in tow by a fussy steam-tug, and proudly started as one of a fine English squadron in the great search of the nations for the lost Sir John Franklin. It was late in the year 1855, on the 24th of December, that the same ship, weather-worn, scantily rigged, without her lighter masts, all in the trim of a vessel which has had a hard fight with wind, water, ice, and time, made the light-house of _New_ London,--waited for day and came round to anchor in the other river Thames, of _New_ England. Not one man of the English crew was on board. The gallant Captain Kellett was not there; but in his place an American master, who had shown, in his way, equal gallantry. The sixty or seventy men with whom she sailed were all in their homes more than a year ago. The eleven men with whom she returned had had to double parts, and to work hard to make good the places of the sixty. And between the day when the Englishmen left her, and the day the Americans found her, she had spent fifteen months and more alone. She was girt in by the ice of the Arctic seas. No man knows where she went, what narrow scapes she passed through, how low her thermometers marked cold;--it is a bit of her history which was never written. Nor what befell her little tender, the "Intrepid," which was left in her neighborhood, "ready for occupation," just as she was left. No man will ever tell of the nip that proved too much for her,--of the opening of her seams, and her disappearance beneath the ice. But here is the hardy Resolute, which, on the 15th of May, 1854, her brave commander left, as he was ordered, "ready for occupation,"--which the brave Captain Buddington found September 10, 1855, more than a thousand miles from there, and pronounced still "ready for occupation";--and of what can be known of her history from Old London to New London, from Old England's Thames to New England's Thames, we will try to tell the story; as it is written in the letters of her old officers and told by the lips of her new rescuers. For Arctic work, if ships are to go into every nook and lane of ice that will yield at all to wind and steam, they must be as nearly indestructible as man can make them. For Arctic work, therefore, and for discovery work, ships built of the _teak_ wood of Malabar and Java are considered most precisely fitted. Ships built of teak are said to be wholly indestructible by time. To this we owe the fact, which now becomes part of a strange coincidence, that one of the old Captain Cook's ships which went round the world with him has been, till within a few years, a whaling among the American whalers, revisiting, as a familiar thing, the shores which she was first to discover. The English admiralty, eager to fit out for Arctic service a ship of the best build they could find, bought the two teak-built ships Baboo and Ptarmigan in 1850,--sent them to their own dock-yards to be refitted, and the Baboo became the Assistance,--the Ptarmigan became the Resolute, of their squadrons of Arctic discovery. Does the reader know that in the desolation of the Arctic shores the Ptarmigan is the bird most often found? It is the Arctic grouse or partridge,[O] and often have the ptarmigans of Melville Island furnished sport and even dinners to the hungry officers of the "Resolute," wholly unconscious that she had ever been their god-child, and had thrown off their name only to take that which she now wears. Early in May, 1850, just at the time we now know that brave Sir John Franklin and the remnant of his crew were dying of starvation at the mouth of Back's River, the "Resolute" sailed first for the Arctic seas, the flag-ship of Commodore Austin, with whose little squadron our own De Haven and his men had such pleasant intercourse near Beechey Island. In the course of that expedition she wintered off Cornwallis Island,--and in autumn of the next year returned to England. Whenever a squadron or a man or an army returns to England, unless in the extreme and exceptional case of complete victory over obstacle invincible, there is always dissatisfaction. This is the English way. And so there was dissatisfaction when Captain Austin returned with his ships and men. There was also still a lingering hope that some trace of Franklin might yet be found, perhaps some of his party. Yet more, there were two of the searching ships which had entered the Polar seas from Behring's Straits on the west, the "Enterprise" and "Investigator," which might need relief before they came through or returned. Arctic search became a passion by this time, and at once a new squadron was fitted out to take the seas in the spring of 1852. This squadron consisted of the "Assistance" and "Resolute" again, which had been refitted since their return, of the "Intrepid" and "Pioneer," two steamships used as tenders to the "Assistance" and "Resolute" respectively, and of the "North Star," which had also been in those regions, and now went as a storeship to the rest of the squadron. To the command of the whole Sir Edward Belcher was appointed, an officer who had served in some of the earlier Arctic expeditions. Officers and men volunteered in full numbers for the service, and these five vessels therefore carried out a body of men who brought more experience of the Northern seas together than any expedition which had ever visited them. Of these, Captain Henry Kellett had command of the "Resolute," and was second in seniority to Sir Edward Belcher, who made the "Assistance" the flag-ship. It shows what sort of man he was, to say that for more than ten years he spent only part of one in England, and was the rest of the time in an antipodean hemisphere or a hyperborean zone. Before brave Sir John Franklin sailed, Captain Kellett was in the Pacific. Just as he was to return home, he was ordered into the Arctic seas to search for Sir John. Three years successively, in his ship the "Herald," he passed inside Behring's Straits, and far into the Arctic Ocean. He discovered "Herald Island," the farthest land known there. He was one of the last men to see McClure in the "Investigator" before she entered the Polar seas from the northwest. He sent three of his men on board that ship to meet them all again, as will be seen, in strange surroundings. After more than seven years of this Pacific and Arctic life, he returned to England, in May or June, 1851, and in the next winter volunteered to try the eastern approach to the same Arctic seas in our ship, the "Resolute." Some of his old officers sailed with him. We know nothing of Captain Kellett but what his own letters, despatches, and instructions show, as they are now printed in enormous parliamentary blue-books, and what the despatches and letters of his officers and of his commander show. But these papers present the picture of a vigorous, hearty man, kind to his crew and a great favorite with them, brave in whatever trial, always considerate, generous to his officers, reposing confidence in their integrity; a man, in short, of whom the world will be apt to hear more. His commander, Sir Edward Belcher, tried by the same standard, appears a brave and ready man, apt to talk of himself, not very considerate of his inferiors, confident in his own opinion; in short, a man with whom one would not care to spend three Arctic winters. With him, as we trace the "Resolute's" fortunes, we shall have much to do. Of Captain Kellett we shall see something all along till the day when he sadly left her, as bidden by Sir Edward Belcher, "ready for occupation." With such a captain, and with sixty-odd men, the "Resolute" cast off her moorings in the gray of the morning on the 21st of April, 1852, to go in search of Sir John Franklin. The brave Sir John had died two years before, but no one knew that, nor whispered it. The river steam-tug "Monkey" took her in tow, other steamers took the "Assistance" and the "North Star"; the "Intrepid" and "Pioneer" got up their own steam, and to the cheers of the little company gathered at Greenhithe to see them off, they went down the Thames. At the Nore, the steamship "Desperate" took the "Resolute" in charge, Sir Edward Belcher made the signal "Orkneys" as the place of rendezvous, and in four days she was there, in Stromness outer harbor. Here there was a little shifting of provisions and coal-bags, those of the men who could get on shore squandered their spending-money, and then, on the 28th of April, she and hers bade good by to British soil. And, though they have welcomed it again long since, she has not seen it from then till now. The "Desperate" steamer took her in tow, she sent her own tow-lines to the "North Star," and for three days in this procession of so wild and weird a name, they three forged on westward toward Greenland,--a train which would have startled any old Viking had he fallen in with it, with a fresh gale blowing all the time and "a nasty sea." On the fourth day all the tow-lines broke or were cast off however, Neptune and the winds claimed their own, and the "Resolute" tried her own resources. The towing steamers were sent home in a few days more, and the squadron left to itself. We have too much to tell in this short article to be able to dwell on the details of her visits to the hospitable Danes of Greenland, or of her passage through the ice of Baffin's Bay. But here is one incident, which, as the event has proved, is part of a singular coincidence. On the 6th of July all the squadron, tangled in the ice, joined a fleet of whalers beset in it, by a temporary opening between the gigantic masses. Caught at the head of a bight in the ice, with the "Assistance" and the "Pioneer," the "Resolute" was, for the emergency, docked there, and, by the ice closing behind her, was, for a while, detained. Meanwhile the rest of the fleet, whalers and discovery ships, passed on by a little lane of water, the American whaler "McLellan" leading. This "McLellan" was one of the ships of the spirited New London merchants, Messrs. Perkins & Smith, another of whose vessels has now found the "Resolute" and befriended her in her need in those seas. The "McLellan" was their pioneer vessel there. The "North Star" of the English squadron followed the "McLellan." A long train stretched out behind. Whalers and government ships, as they happened to fall into line,--a long three quarters of a mile. It was lovely weather, and, though the long lane closed up so that they could neither go back nor forward,--nobody apprehended injury till it was announced on the morning of the 7th that the poor "McLellan" was nipped in the ice and her crew were deserting her. Sir Edward Belcher was then in condition to befriend her, sent his carpenters to examine her,--put a few charges of powder into the ice to relieve the pressure upon her,--and by the end of the day it was agreed that her injuries could be repaired, and her crew went on board again. But there is no saying what ice will do next. The next morning there was a fresh wind, the "McLellan" was caught again, and the water poured into her, a steady stream. She drifted about unmanageable, now into one ship, now into another, and the English whalemen began to pour on board, to help themselves to such plunder as they chose. At the Captain's request, Sir Edward Belcher put an end to this, sent sentries on board, and working parties, to clear her as far as might be, and keep account of what her stores were and where they went to. In a day or two more she sank to the water's edge and a friendly charge or two of powder put her out of the way of harm to the rest of the fleet. After such a week spent together it will easily be understood that the New London whalemen did not feel strangers on board one of Sir Edward's vessels when they found her "ready for occupation" three years and more afterwards. In this tussle with the ice, the "Resolute" was nipped once or twice, but she has known harder nips than that since. As July wore away, she made her way across Baffin's Bay, and on the 10th of August made Beechey Island,--known now as the head-quarters for years of the searching squadrons, because, as it happened, the place where the last traces of Franklin's ships were found,--the wintering place of his first winter. But Captain Kellett was on what is called the "western search," and he only stayed at Beechey Island to complete his provisions from the storeships, and in the few days which this took, to see for himself the sad memorials of Franklin's party,--and then the "Resolute" and "Intrepid" were away, through Barrow's Straits,--on the track which Parry ran along with such success thirty-three years before,--and which no one had followed with as good fortune as he, until now. On the 15th of August Captain Kellett was off; bade good by to the party at Beechey Island, and was to try his fortune in independent command. He had not the best of luck at starting. The reader must remember that one great object of these Arctic expeditions was to leave provisions for starving men. For such a purpose, and for travelling parties of his own over the ice, Captain Kellett was to leave a depot at Assistance Bay, some thirty miles only from Beechey Island. In nearing for that purpose the "Resolute" grounded, was left with but seven feet of water, the ice threw her over on her starboard bilge, and she was almost lost. Not quite lost, however, or we should not be telling her story. At midnight she was got off, leaving sixty feet of her false keel behind. Captain Kellett forged on in her,--left a depot here and another there,--and at the end of the short Arctic summer had come as far westward as Sir Edward Parry came. Here is the most westerly point the reader will find on most maps far north in America,--the Melville Island of Captain Parry. Captain Kellett's associate, Captain McClintock of the "Intrepid," had commanded the only party which had been here since Parry. In 1851 he came over from Austin's squadron with a sledge party. So confident is every one there that nobody has visited those parts unless he was sent, that McClintock encouraged his men one day by telling them that if they got on well, they should have an old cart Parry had left thirty-odd years before, to make a fire of. Sure enough; they came to the place, and there was the wreck of the cart just as Parry left it. They even found the ruts the old cart left in the ground as if they had not been left a week. Captain Kellett came into harbor, and with great spirit he and his officers began to prepare for the extended searching parties of the next spring. The "Resolute" and her tender came to anchor off Dealy Island, and there she spent the next eleven months of her life, with great news around her in that time. There is not much time for travelling in autumn. The days grow very short and very cold. But what, days there were were spent in sending out carts and sledges with depots of provisions, which the parties of the next spring could use. Different officers were already assigned to different lines of search in spring. On their journeys they would be gone three months and more, with a party of some eight men,--dragging a sled very like a Yankee wood-sled with their instruments and provisions, over ice and snow. To extend those searches as much as possible, and to prepare the men for that work when it should come, advanced depots were now sent forward in the autumn, under the charge of the gentlemen who would have to use them in the spring. One of these parties, the "South line of Melville Island" party, was under a spirited young officer Mr. Mecham, who had tried such service in the last expedition. He had two of "her Majesty's sledges," "The Discovery" and "The Fearless," a depot of twenty days' provision to be used in the spring, and enough for twenty-five days' present use. All the sledges had little flags, made by some young lady friends of Sir Edward Belcher's. Mr. Mecham's bore an armed hand and sword on a white ground, with the motto, "_Per mare, per terram, per glaciem_" Over mud, land, snow, and ice they carried their dépot, and were nearly back, when, on the 12th of October, 1852, Mr. Mecham made the great discovery of the expedition. On the shore of Melville Island, above Winter Harbor, is a great sandstone boulder, ten feet high, seven or eight broad, and twenty and more long, which is known to all those who have anything to do with those regions as "Parry's sandstone," for it stood near Parry's observatory the winter he spent here, and Mr. Fisher, his surgeon, cut on a flat face of it this inscription:-- HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SHIPS HECLA AND GRIPER, COMMANDED BY W.E. PARRY AND MR. LIDDON, WINTERED IN THE ADJACENT HARBOR 1819-20. A. FISHER, SCULPT. It was a sort of God Terminus put up to mark the end of that expedition, as the Danish gentlemen tell us our Dighton rock is the last point of Thorfinn's expedition to these parts. Nobody came to read Mr. Fisher's inscription for thirty years and more,--a little Arctic hare took up her home under the great rock, and saw the face of man for the first time when, on the 5th of June, 1851, Mr. McClintock, on his first expedition this way, had stopped to see whether possibly any of Franklin's men had ever visited it. He found no signs of them, had not so much time as Mr. Fisher for stone-cutting, but carved the figures 1851 on the stone, and left it and the hare. To this stone, on his way back to the "Resolute," Mr. Mecham came again (as we said) on the 12th of October, one memorable Tuesday morning, having been bidden to leave a record there. He went on in advance of his party, meaning to cut 1852 on the stone. On top of it was a small cairn of stones built by Mr. McClintock the year before. Mecham examined this, and to his surprise a copper cylinder rolled out from under a spirit tin. "On opening it, I drew out a roll folded in a bladder, which, being frozen, broke and crumbled. From its dilapidated appearance, I thought at the moment it must be some record of Sir Edward Parry, and, fearing I might damage it, laid it down with the intention of lighting the fire to thaw it. My curiosity, however, overcame my prudence, and on opening it carefully with my knife, I came to a roll of cartridge paper with the impression fresh upon the seals. My astonishment may be conceived on finding it contained an account of the proceedings of H.M. ship 'Investigator' since parting company with the "Herald" [Captain Kellett's old ship] in August, 1850, in Behring's Straits. Also a chart which disclosed to view not only the long-sought Northwest Passage, but the completion of the survey of Banks and Wollaston lands. Opened and indorsed Commander McClintock's despatch; found it contained the following additions:-- "'Opened and copied by his old friend and messmate upon this date, April 28, 1852. ROBERT McCLURE "'Party all well and return to Investigator to-day.'" A great discovery indeed to flash across one in a minute. The "Investigator" had not been heard from for more than two years. Here was news of her not yet six months old. The Northwest Passage had been dreamed of for three centuries and more. Here was news of its discovery,--news that had been known to Captain McClure for two years. McClure and McClintock were lieutenants together in the "Enterprise" when she was sent after Sir John Franklin in 1848, and wintered together at Port Leopold the next winter. Now, from different hemispheres, they had come so near meeting at this old block of sandstone. Mr. Mecham bade his mate build a new cairn, to put the record of the story in, and hurried on to the "Resolute" with his great news,--news of almost everybody but Sir John Franklin. Strangely enough, the other expedition, Captain Collinson's, had had a party in that neighborhood, between the other two, under Mr. Parks; but it was his extreme point possible, and he could not reach the Sandstone, though he saw the ruts of McClure's sleigh. This was not known till long afterwards. The "Investigator," as it appeared from this despatch of Captain McClure's, had been frozen up in the Bay of Mercy of Banks Land: Banks Land having been for thirty years at once an Ultima Thule and Terra Incognita, put down on the maps where Captain Parry saw it across thirty miles of ice and water in 1819. Perhaps she was still in that same bay: these old friends wintering there, while the "Resolute" and "Intrepid" were lying under Dealy Island, and only one hundred and seventy miles between. It must have been tantalizing to all parties to wait the winter through, and not even get a message across. But until winter made it too cold and dark to travel, the ice in the strait was so broken up that it was impossible to attempt to traverse it, even with a light boat, for the lanes of water. So the different autumn parties came in, the last on the last of October, and the officers and men entered on their winter's work and play, to push off the winter days as quickly as they could. The winter was very severe; and it proved that, as the "Resolute" lay, they were a good deal exposed to the wind. But they kept themselves busy,--exercised freely,--found game quite abundant within reasonable distances on shore, whenever the light served,--kept schools for the men,--delivered scientific lectures to whoever would listen,--established the theatre for which the ship had been provided at home,--and gave juggler's exhibitions by way of variety. The recent system of travelling in the fall and spring cuts in materially to the length of the Arctic winters as Ross, Parry, and Back used to experience it, and it was only from the 1st of November to the 10th of March that they were left to their own resources. Late in October one of the "Resolute's" men died, and in December one of the "Intrepid's," but, excepting these cases, they had little sickness, for weeks no one on the sick-list; indeed, Captain Kellett says cheerfully that a sufficiency of good provisions, with plenty of work in the open air, will insure good health in that climate. As early in the spring as he dared risk a travelling party, namely, on the 10th of March, 1853, he sent what they all called a forlorn hope across to the Bay of Mercy, to find any traces of the "Investigator"; for they scarcely ventured to hope that she was still there. This start was earlier by thirty-five days than the early parties had started on the preceding expedition. But it was every way essential that, if Captain McClure had wintered in the Bay of Mercy, the messenger should reach him before he sent off any or all his men, in travelling parties, in the spring. The little forlorn hope consisted of ten men under the command of Lieutenant Pirn, an officer who had been with Captain Kellett in the "Herald" on the Pacific side, had spent a winter in the "Plover" up Behring's Straits, and had been one of the last men whom the "Investigator" had seen before they put into the Arctic Ocean, to discover, as it proved, the Northwest Passage. Here we must stop a moment, to tell what one of these sledge parties is by whose efforts so much has been added to our knowledge of Arctic geography, in journeys which could never have been achieved in ships or boats. In the work of the "Resolute's" parties, in this spring of 1852, Commander McClintock travelled 1,325 miles with his sledge, and Lieutenant Mecham 1,163 miles with his, through regions before wholly unexplored. The sledge, as we have said, is in general contour not unlike a Yankee wood-sled, about eleven feet long. The runners are curved at each end. The sled is fitted with a light canvas trough, so adjusted that, in case of necessity, all the stores, &c., can be ferried over any narrow lane of water in the ice. There are packed on this sled a tent for eight or ten men, five or six pikes, one or more of which Is fitted as an ice-chisel; two large buffalo-skins, a water-tight floor-cloth, which contrives "a double debt to pay, A floor by night, the sledge's sail by day" (and it must be remembered that "day" and "night" in those regions are very equivocal terms). There are, besides, a cooking-apparatus, of which the fire is made in spirit or tallow lamps, one or two guns, a pick and shovel, instruments for observation, pannikins, spoons, and a little magazine of such necessaries, with the extra clothing of the party. Then the provision, the supply of which measures the length of the expedition, consists of about a pound of bread and a pound of pemmican per man per day, six ounces of pork, and a little preserved potato, rum, lime-juice, tea, chocolate, sugar, tobacco, or other such creature comforts. The sled is fitted with two drag-ropes, at which the men haul. The officer goes ahead to find the best way among hummocks of ice or masses of snow. Sometimes on a smooth floe, before the wind, the floor-cloth is set for a sail, and she runs off merrily, perhaps with several of the crew on board, and the rest running to keep up. But sometimes over broken ice it is a constant task to get her on at all. You hear, "One, two, three, _haul_" all day long, as she is worked out of one ice "cradle-hole" over a hummock into another. Different parties select different hours for travelling. Captain Kellett finally considered that the best division of time, when, as usual, they had constant daylight, was to start at four in the afternoon, travel till ten P.M., _breakfast_ then, tent and rest four hours; travel four more, tent, dine, and sleep nine hours. This secured sleep, when the sun was the highest and most trying to the eyes. The distances accomplished with this equipment are truly surprising. Each man, of course, is dressed as warmly as flannel, woollen cloth, leather, and seal-skin will dress him. For such long journeying, the study of boots becomes a science, and our authorities are full of discussions as to canvas or woollen, or carpet or leather boots, of strings and of buckles. When the time "to tent" comes, the pikes are fitted for tent-poles, and the tent set up, its door to leeward, on the ice or snow. The floor-cloth is laid for the carpet. At an hour fixed, all talking must stop. There is just room enough for the party to lie side by side on the floor-cloth. Each man gets into a long felt bag, made of heavy felting literally nearly half an inch thick. He brings this up wholly over his head, and buttons himself in. He has a little hole in it to breathe through. Over the felt is sometimes a brown holland bag, meant to keep out moisture. The officer lies farthest in the tent,--as being next the wind, the point of hardship and so of honor. The cook for the day lies next the doorway, as being first to be called. Side by side the others lie between. Over them all Mackintosh blankets with the buffalo-robes are drawn, by what power this deponent sayeth not, not knowing. No watch is kept, for there is little danger of intrusion. Once a whole party was startled by a white bear smelling at them, who waked one of their dogs, and a droll time they had of it, springing to their arms while enveloped in their sacks. But we remember no other instance where a sentinel was needed. And occasionally in the journals the officer notes that he overslept in the morning, and did not "call the cook" early enough. What a passion is sleep, to be sure, that one should oversleep with such comforts round him! Some thirty or forty parties, thus equipped, set out from the "Resolute" while she was under Captain Kellett's charge, on various expeditions. As the journey of Lieutenant Pim to the "Investigator" at Banks Land was that on which turned the great victory of her voyage, we will let that stand as a specimen of all. None of the others, however, were undertaken at so early a period of the year, and, on the other hand, several others were much longer,--some of them, as has been said, occupying three months and more. Lieutenant Pim had been appointed in the autumn to the "Banks Land search," and had carried out his depots of provisions when the other officers took theirs. Captain McClure's chart and despatch made it no longer necessary to have that coast surveyed, but made it all the more necessary to have some one go and see if he was still there. The chances were against this, as a whole summer had intervened since he was heard from. Lieutenant Pim proposed, however, to travel all round Banks Land, which is an island about the size and shape of Ireland, in search of him, Collinson, Franklin, or anybody. Captain Kellett, however, told him not to attempt this with his force, but to return to the ship by the route he went. First he was to go to the Bay of Mercy; if the "Investigator" was gone, he was to follow any traces of her, and, if possible, communicate with her or her consort, the "Enterprise." Lieutenant Pim started with a sledge and seven men, and a dog-sledge with two under Dr. Domville, the surgeon, who was to bring back the earliest news from the Bay of Mercy to the captain. There was a relief sledge to go part way and return. For the intense cold of this early season they had even more careful arrangements than those we have described. Their tent was doubled. They had extra Mackintoshes, and whatever else could be devised. They had bad luck at starting,--broke down one sledge and had to send back for another; had bad weather, and must encamp, once for three days. "Fortunately," says the lieutenant of this encampment, "the temperature arose from fifty-one below zero to thirty-six below, and there remained," while the drift accumulated to such a degree around the tents, that within them the thermometer was only twenty below, and, when they cooked, rose to zero. A pleasant time of it they must have had there on the ice, for those three days, in their bags smoking and sleeping! No wonder that on the fourth day they found they moved slowly, so cramped and benumbed were they. This morning a new sledge came to them from the ship; they got out of their bags, packed, and got under way again. They were still running along shore, but soon sent back the relief party which had brought the new sled, and in a few days more set out to cross the strait, some twenty-five to thirty miles wide, which, when it is open, as no man has ever seen it, is one of the Northwest Passages discovered by these expeditions. Horrible work it was! Foggy and dark, so they could not choose the road, and, as it happened, lit on the very worst mass of broken ice in the channel. Just as they entered on it, one black raven must needs appear. "Bad luck," said the men. And when Mr. Pim shot a musk-ox, their first, and the wounded creature got away, "So much for the raven," they croaked again. Only three miles the first day, four miles the second day, two and a half the third, and half a mile the fourth; this was all they gained by most laborious hauling over the broken ice, dragging one sledge at a time, and sometimes carrying forward the stores separately and going back for the sledges. Two days more gave them eight miles more, but on the seventh day on this narrow strait, the dragging being a little better, the great sledge slipped off a smooth hummock, broke one runner to smash, and "there they were." If the two officers had a little bit of a "tiff" out there on the ice, with the thermometer at eighteen below, only a little dog-sledge to get them anywhere, their ship a hundred miles off, fourteen days' travel as they had come, nobody ever knew it; they kept their secret from us, it is nobody's business, and it is not to be wondered at. Certainly they did not agree. The Doctor, whose sled, the "James Fitzjames," was still sound, thought they had best leave the stores and all go back; but the Lieutenant, who had the command, did not like to give it up, so he took the dogs and the "James Fitzjames" and its two men and went on, leaving the Doctor on the floe, but giving him directions to go back to land with the wounded sledge and wait for him to return. And the Doctor did it, like a spirited fellow, travelling back and forth for what he could not take in one journey, as the man did in the story who had a peck of corn, a goose, and a wolf to get across the river. Over ice, over hummock the Lieutenant went on his way with his dogs, not a bear nor a seal nor a hare nor a wolf to feed them with: preserved meats, which had been put up with dainty care for men and women, all he had for the ravenous, tasteless creatures, who would have been more pleased with blubber, came to Banks Land at last, but no game there; awful drifts; shut up in the tent for a whole day, and he himself so sick he could scarcely stand! There were but three of them in all; and the captain of the sledge not unnaturally asked poor Pim, when he was at the worst, "What shall I do, sir, if you die?" Not a very comforting question! He did not die. He got a few hours' sleep, felt better and started again, but had the discouragement of finding such tokens of an open strait the last year that he felt sure that the ship he was going to look for would be gone. One morning, he had been off for game for the dogs unsuccessfully, and, when he came back to his men, learned that they had seen seventeen deer. After them goes Pim; finds them to be _three hares_, magnified by fog and mirage, and their long ears answering for horns. This same day they got upon the Bay of Mercy. No ship in sight! Right across it goes the Lieutenant to look for records; when, at two in the afternoon, Robert Hoile sees something black up the bay. Through the glass the Lieutenant makes it out to be a ship. They change their direction at once. Over the ice towards her! He leaves the sledge at three and goes on. How far it seems! At four he can see people walking about, and a pile of stones and flag-staff on the beach. Keep on, Pim; shall one never get there? At five he is within a hundred yards of her, and no one has seen him. But just then the very persons see him who ought to! Pim beckons, waves his arms as the Esquimaux do in sign of friendship. Captain McClure and his lieutenant Haswell are "taking their exercise," the chief business of those winters, and at last see him! Pim is black as Erebus from the smoke of cooking in the little tent. McClure owns, not to surprise only, but to a twinge of dismay. "I paused in my advance," says he, "doubting who or what it could be, a denizen of this or the other world." But this only lasts a moment. Pim speaks. Brave man that he can. How his voice must have choked, as if he were in a dream. "I am Lieutenant Pim, late of 'Herald.' Captain Kellett is at Melville Island." Well-chosen words, Pim, to be sent in advance over the hundred yards of floe! Nothing about the "Resolute,"--that would have confused them. But "Pim," "Herald," and "Kellett" were among the last signs of England they had seen,--all this was intelligible. An excellent little speech, which the brave man had been getting ready, perhaps, as one does a telegraphic despatch, for the hours that he had been walking over the floe to her. Then such shaking hands, such a greeting. Poor McClure could not speak at first. One of the men at work got the news on board; and up through the hatches poured everybody, sick and well, to see the black stranger, and to hear his news from England. It was nearly three years since they had seen any civilized man but themselves. The 28th of July, three years before, Commander McClure had sent his last despatch to the Admiralty. He had then prophesied just what in three years he had almost accomplished. In the winter of 1850 he had discovered the Northwest Passage. He had come round into one branch of it, Banks Straits, in the next summer; had gladly taken refuge on the Bay of Mercy in a gale; and his ship had never left it since. Let it be said, in passing, that most likely she is there now. In his last despatches he had told the Admiralty not to be anxious about him if he did not arrive home before the autumn of 1854. As it proved, that autumn he did come with all his men, except those whom he had sent home before, and those who had died. When Pim found them, all the crew but thirty were under orders for marching, some to Baffin's Bay, some to the Mackenzie River, on their return to England. McClure was going to stay with the rest, and come home with the ship, if they could; if not, by sledges to Port Leopold, and so by a steam-launch which he had seen left there for Franklin in 1849. But the arrival of Mr. Pim put an end to all these plans. We have his long despatch to the Admiralty explaining them, finished only the day before Pim arrived. It gives the history of his three years' exile from the world,--an exile crowded full of effective work,--in a record which gives a noble picture of the man. The Queen has made him Sir Robert Le Mesurier McClure since, in honor of his great discovery. Banks Land, or Baring Island, the two names belong to the same island, on the shores of which McClure and his men had spent most of these two years or more, is an island on which they were first of civilized men to land. For people who are not very particular, the measurement of it which we gave before, namely, that it is about the size and shape of Ireland, is precise enough. There is high land in the interior probably, as the winds from in shore are cold. The crew found coal and dwarf willow which they could burn; lemmings, ptarmigan, hares, reindeer, and musk-oxen, which they could eat. "Farewell to the land where I often have wended My way o'er its mountains and valleys of snow; Farewell to the rocks and the hills I've ascended, The bleak arctic homes of the buck and the doe; Farewell to the deep glens where oft has resounded The snow-bunting's song, as she carolled her lay To hillside and plain, by the green sorrel bounded, Till struck by the blast of a cold winter's day." There is a bit of description of Banks Land, from the anthology of that country, which, so far as we know, consists of two poems by a seaman named Nelson, one of Captain McClure's crew. The highest temperature ever observed on this "gem of the sea" was 53° in midsummer. The lowest was 65° below zero in January, 1853; that day the thermometer did not rise to 60° below, that month was never warmer than 16° below, and the average of the month was 43° below. A pleasant climate to spend three years in! One day for talk was all that could be allowed, after Mr. Pim's amazing appearance. On the 8th of April, he and his dogs, and Captain McClure and a party, were ready to return to our friend the "Resolute." They picked up Dr. Domville on the way; he had got the broken sledge mended, and killed five musk-oxen, against they came along. He went on in the dog-sledge to tell the news, but McClure and his men kept pace with them; and he and Dr. Domville had the telling of the news together. It was decided that the "Investigator" should be abandoned, and the "Intrepid" and "Resolute" made room for her men. Glad greeting they gave them too, as British seamen can give. More than half the crews were away when the "Investigator's" parties came in, but by July everybody had returned. They had found islands where the charts had guessed there was sea, and sea where they had guessed there was land; had changed peninsulas into islands and islands into peninsulas. Away off beyond the seventy eighth parallel, Mr. McClintock had christened the farthest dot of land "Ireland's Eye," as if his native island were peering off into the unknown there;--a great island, which will be our farthest now, for years to come, had been named "Prince Patrick's Land," in honor of the baby prince who was the youngest when they left home. Will he not be tempted, when he is a man, to take a crew, like another Madoc, and, as younger sons of queens should, go and settle upon this tempting god-child? They had heard from Sir Edward Belcher's part of the squadron; they had heard from England; had heard of everything but Sir John Franklin. They had even found an ale-bottle of Captain Collinson's expedition,--but not a stick nor straw to show where Franklin or his men had lived or died. Two officers of the "Investigator" were sent home to England this summer by a ship from Beechey Island, the head-quarters; and thus we heard, in October, 1853, of the discovery of the Northwest Passage. After their crews were on board again, and the "Investigator's" sixty stowed away also, the "Resolute" and "Intrepid" had a dreary summer of it. The ice would not break up. They had hunting-parties on shore and races on the floe; but the captain could not send the "Investigators" home as he wanted to, in his steam tender. All his plans were made, and made on a manly scale,--if only the ice would open. He built a storehouse on the island for Collinson's people, or for you, reader, and us, if we should happen there, and stored it well, and left this record:-- "This is a house which I have named the 'Sailor's Home,' under the especial patronage of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty. "_Here_ royal sailors and marines are fed, clothed, and receive double pay for inhabiting it." In that house is a little of everything, and a good deal of victuals and drink; but nobody has been there since the last of the "Resolute's" men came away. At last, the 17th of August, a day of foot-racing and jumping in bags and wrestling, all hands present, as at a sort of "Isthmian games," ended with a gale, a cracking up of ice, and the "Investigators" thought they were on their way home, and Kellett thought he was to have a month of summer yet. But no; "there is nothing certain in this navigation from one hour to the next." The "Resolute" and "Intrepid" were never really free of ice all that autumn; drove and drifted to and fro in Barrow's Straits till the 12th of November; and then froze up, without anchoring, off Cape Cockburn, perhaps one hundred and forty miles from their harbor of the last winter. The log-book of that winter is a curious record; the ingenuity of the officer in charge was well tasked to make one day differ from another. Each day has the first entry for "ship's position" thus: "In the floe off Cape Cockburn." And the blank for the second entry, thus: "In the same position." Lectures, theatricals, schools, &c., whiled away the time; but there could be no autumn travelling parties, and not much hope for discovery in the summer. Spring came. The captain went over ice in his little dog-sled to Beechey Island, and received his directions to abandon his ships. It appears that he would rather have sent most of his men forward, and with a small crew brought the "Resolute" home that autumn or the next. But Sir Edward Belcher considered his orders peremptory "that the safety of the crews must preclude any idea of extricating the ships." Both ships were to be abandoned. Two distant travelling parties were away, one at the "Investigator," one looking for traces of Collinson, which they found. Word was left for them, at a proper point, not to seek the ship again, but to come on to Beechey Island. And at last, having fitted the "Intrepid's" engines so that she could be under steam in two hours, having stored both ships with equal proportions of provisions, and made both vessels "ready for occupation," the captain calked down the hatches, and with all the crew he had not sent on before,--forty-two persons in all,--left her Monday, the 15th of May, 1854, and started with the sledges for Beechey Island. Poor old "Resolute"! All this gay company is gone who have made her sides split with their laughter. Here is Harlequin's dress, lying in one of the wardrooms, but there is nobody to dance Harlequin's dances. "Here is a lovely clear day,--surely to-day they will come on deck and take a meridian!" No, nobody comes. The sun grows hot on the decks; but it is all one, nobody looks at the thermometer! "And so the poor ship was left all alone." Such gay times she has had with all these brave young men on board! Such merry winters, such a lightsome summer! So much fun, so much nonsense! So much science and wisdom, and now it is all so still! Is the poor "Resolute" conscious of the change? Does she miss the races on the ice, the scientific lecture every Tuesday, the occasional racket and bustle of the theatre, and the worship of every Sunday? Has not she shared the hope of Captain Kellett, of McClure, and of the crew, that she may _break out well!_ She sees the last sledge leave her. The captain drives off his six dogs,--vanishes over the ice, and they are all gone "Will they not come back again?" says the poor ship. And she looks wistfully across the ice to her little friend the steam tender "Intrepid," and she sees there is no one there. "Intrepid! Intrepid! have they really deserted us? We have served them so well, and have they really left us alone? A great many were away travelling last year, but they came home. Will not any of these come home now?" No, poor "Resolute"! Not one of them ever came back again! Not one of them meant to. Summer came. August came. No one can tell how soon, but some day or other this her icy prison broke up, and the good ship found herself on her own element again; shook herself proudly, we cannot doubt, nodded joyfully across to the "Intrepid," and was free. But alas! there was no master to take latitude and longitude, no helmsman at the wheel. In clear letters cast in brass over her helm there are these words, "England expects each man to do his duty." But here is no man to heed the warning, and the rudder flaps this way and that way, no longer directing her course, but stupidly swinging to and fro. And she drifts here and there,--drifts out of sight of her little consort,--strands on a bit of ice floe now, and then is swept off from it,--and finds herself, without even the "Intrepid's" company, alone on these blue seas with those white shores. But what utter loneliness! Poor "Resolute "! She longed for freedom,--but what is freedom where there is no law? What is freedom without a helmsman! And the "Resolute" looks back so sadly to the old days when she had a master. And the short bright summer passes. And again she sees the sun set from her decks. And now even her topmasts see it set. And now it does not rise to her deck. And the next day it does not rise to her topmast. Winter and night together! She has known them before! But now it is winter and night and loneliness all together. This horrid ice closes up round her again. And there is no one to bring her into harbor,--she is out in the open sound. If the ice drifts west, she must go west. If it goes east, she must east. Her seeming freedom is over, and for that long winter she is chained again. But her heart is true to old England. And when she can go east, she is so happy! and when she must go west, she is so sad! Eastward she does go! Southward she does go! True to the instinct which sends us all home, she tracks undirected and without a sail fifteen hundred miles of that sea, without a beacon, which separates her from her own. And so goes a dismal year. "Perhaps another spring they will come and find me out, and fix things below. It is getting dreadfully damp down there; and I cannot keep the guns bright and the floors dry," No, good old "Resolute." May and June pass off the next year, and nobody comes; and here you are all alone out in the bay, drifting in this dismal pack. July and August,--the days are growing shorter again. "Will nobody come and take care of me, and cut off these horrid blocks of ice, and see to these sides of bacon in the hold, and all these mouldy sails, and this powder, and the bread and the spirit that I have kept for them so well? It is September, and the sun begins to set again. And here is another of those awful gales. Will it be my very last? all alone here,--who have done so much,--and if they would only take care of me I can do so much more. Will nobody come? Nobody?.... What! Is it ice blink,--are my poor old lookouts blind? Is not there the 'Intrepid'? Dear 'Intrepid,' I will never look down on you again! No! there is no smoke-stack, it is not the 'Intrepid.' But it is somebody. Pray see me, good somebody. Are you a Yankee whaler? I am glad to see the Yankee whalers, I remember the Yankee whalers very pleasantly. We had a happy summer together once.... It will be dreadful if they do not see me! But this ice, this wretched ice! They do see me,--I know they see me, but they cannot get at me. Do not go away, good Yankees; pray come and help me. I know I can get out, if you will help a little.... But now it is a whole week and they do not come! Are there any Yankees, or am I getting crazy? I have heard them talk of crazy old ships, in my young days.... No! I am not crazy. They are coming! they are coming. Brave Yankees! over the hummocks, down into the sludge. Do not give it up for the cold. There is coal below, and we will have a fire in the Sylvester, and in the captain's cabin.... There is a horrid lane of water. They have not got a Halkett. O, if one of these boats of mine would only start for them, instead of lying so stupidly on my deck here! But the men are not afraid of water! See them ferry over on that ice block! Come on, good friends! Welcome, whoever you be,--Dane, Dutch, French, or Yankee, come on! come on! It is coming up a gale, but I can bear a gale. Up the side, men. I wish I could let down the gangway alone. But here are all these blocks of ice piled up,--you can scramble over them! Why do you stop? Do not be afraid. I will make you very comfortable and jolly. Do not stay talking there. Pray come in. There is port in the captain's cabin, and a little preserved meat in the pantry. You must be hungry; pray come in! O, he is coming, and now all four are coming. It would be dreadful if they had gone back! They are on deck. Now I shall go home! How lonely it has been!" It was true enough that when Mr. Quail, the brother of the captain of the "McLellan," whom the "Resolute" had befriended, the mate of the George Henry, whaler, whose master, Captain Buddington, had discovered the "Resolute" in the ice, came to her after a hard day's journey with his men, the men faltered with a little superstitious feeling, and hesitated for a minute about going on board. But the poor lonely ship wooed them too lovingly, and they climbed over the broken ice and came on deck. She was lying over on her larboard side, with a heavy weight of ice holding her down. Hatches and companion were made fast, as Captain Kellett had left them. But, knocking open the companion, groping down stairs to the after cabin they found their way to the captain's table; somebody put his hand on a box of lucifers, struck a light, and revealed--books scattered in confusion, a candle standing, which he lighted at once, the glasses and the decanters from which Kellett and his officers had drunk good by to the vessel. The whalemen filled them again, and undoubtedly felt less discouraged. Meanwhile night came on, and a gale arose. So hard did it blow, that for two days these four were the whole crew of the "Resolute," and it was not till the 19th of September that they returned to their own ship, and reported what their prize was. All these ten days, since Captain Buddington had first seen her, the vessels had been nearing each other. On the 19th he boarded her himself; found that in her hold, on the larboard side, was a good deal of ice; on the starboard side there seemed to be water. In fact, her tanks had burst from the extreme cold; and she was full of water, nearly to her lower deck. Everything that could move from its place had moved; everything was wet; everything that would mould was mouldy. "A sort of perspiration" settled on the beams above. Clothes were wringing wet. The captain's party made a fire in Captain Kellett's stove, and soon started a sort of shower from the vapor with which it filled the air. The "Resolute" has, however, four fine force-pumps. For three days the captain and six men worked fourteen hours a day on one of these, and had the pleasure of finding that they freed her of water,--that she was tight still. They cut away upon the masses of ice; and on the 23d of September, in the evening, she freed herself from her encumbrances, and took an even keel. This was off the west shore of Baffin's Bay, in latitude 67°. On the shortest tack she was twelve hundred miles from where Captain Kellett left her. There was work enough still to be done. The rudder was to be shipped, the rigging to be made taut, sail to be set; and it proved, by the way, that the sail on the yards was much of it still serviceable, while a suit of new linen sails below were greatly injured by moisture. In a week more they had her ready to make sail. The pack of ice still drifted with both ships; but on the 21st of October, after a long northwest gale, the "Resolute" was free,--more free than she had been for more than two years. Her "last voyage" is almost told. Captain Buddington had resolved to bring her home. He had picked ten men from the "George Henry," leaving her fifteen, and with a rough tracing of the American coast drawn on a sheet of foolscap, with his lever watch and a quadrant for his instruments, he squared off for New London. A rough, hard passage they had of it. The ship's ballast was gone, by the bursting of the tanks; she was top-heavy and under manned. He spoke a British whaling bark, and by her sent to Captain Kellett his epaulettes, and to his own owners news that he was coming. They had heavy gales and head winds, were driven as far down as the Bermudas; the water left in the ship's tanks was brackish, and it needed all the seasoning which the ship's chocolate would give to make it drinkable. "For sixty hours at a time," says the spirited captain, "I frequently had no sleep"; but his perseverance was crowned with success at last, and on the night of the 23d-24th of December he made the light off the magnificent harbor from which he sailed; and on Sunday morning, the 24th, dropped anchor in the Thames, opposite _New_ London, ran up the royal ensign on the shorn masts of the "Resolute," and the good people of the town knew that he and his were safe, and that one of the victories of peace was won. As the fine ship lies opposite the piers of that beautiful town, she attracts visitors from everywhere, and is, indeed, a very remarkable curiosity. Seals were at once placed, and very properly, on the captain's book-cases, lockers, and drawers, and wherever private property might be injured by wanton curiosity, and two keepers are on duty on the vessel, till her destination is decided. But nothing is changed from what she was when she came into harbor. And, from stem to stern, every detail of her equipment is a curiosity, to the sailor or to the landsman. The candlestick in the cabin is not like a Yankee candlestick. The hawse hole for the chain cable is fitted as has not been seen before. And so of everything between. There is the aspect of wet over everything now, after months of ventilation;--the rifles, which were last fired at musk-oxen in Melville Island, are red with rust, as if they had lain in the bottom of the sea; the volume of Shakespeare, which you find in an officer's berth, has a damp feel, as if you had been reading it in the open air in a March north-easter. The old seamen look with most amazement, perhaps, on the preparations for amusement,--the juggler's cups and balls, or Harlequin's spangled dress; the quiet landsman wonders at the gigantic ice-saws, at the cast-off canvas boots, the long thick Arctic stockings. It seems almost wrong to go into Mr. Hamilton's wardroom, and see how he arranged his soap-cup and his tooth-brush; and one does not tell of it, if he finds on a blank leaf the secret prayer a sister wrote down for the brother to whom she gave a prayer-book. There is a good deal of disorder now,--thanks to her sudden abandonment, and perhaps to her three months' voyage home. A little union-jack lies over a heap of unmended and unwashed underclothes; when Kellett left the ship, he left his country's flag over his arm-chair as if to keep possession. Two officers' swords and a pair of epaulettes were on the cabin table. Indeed, what is there not there,--which should make an Arctic winter endurable,--make a long night into day,--or while long days away? The ship is stanch and sound. The "last voyage" which we have described will not, let us hope, be the last voyage of her career. But wherever she goes, under the English flag or under our own, she will scarcely ever crowd more adventure into one cruise than into that which sealed the discovery of the Northwest Passage; which gave new lands to England, nearest to the pole of all she has; which spent more than a year, no man knows where, self-governed and unguided; and which, having begun under the strict _régime_ of the English navy, ended under the remarkable mutual rules, adopted by common consent, on the business of American whalemen. Is it not worth noting that in this chivalry of Arctic adventure, the ships which have been wrecked have been those of the fight or horror? They are the "Fury," the "Victory," the "Erebus," the "Terror." But the ships which never failed their crews,--which, for all that man knows, are as sound now as ever,--bear the names of peaceful adventure; the "Hecla," the "Enterprise," and "Investigator," the "Assistance" and "Resolute," the "Pioneer" and "Intrepid," and our "Advance" and "Rescue" and "Arctic," never threatened any one, even in their names. And they never failed the men who commanded them or who sailed in them. MY DOUBLE, AND HOW HE UNDID ME ONE OF THE INGHAM PAPERS. [A Boston journal, in noticing this story, called it improbable. I think it is. But I think the moral important. It was first published in the Atlantic Monthly for September, 1859.] * * * * * It is not often that I trouble the readers of the Atlantic Monthly. I should not trouble them now, but for the importunities of my wife, who "feels to insist" that a duty to society is unfulfilled, till I have told why I had to have a double, and how he undid me. She is sure, she says, that intelligent persons cannot understand that pressure upon public servants which alone drives any man into the employment of a double. And while I fear she thinks, at the bottom of her heart, that my fortunes will never be remade, she has a faint hope that, as another Rasselas, I may teach a lesson to future publics, from which they may profit, though we die. Owing to the behavior of my double, or, if you please, to that public pressure which compelled me to employ him, I have plenty of leisure to write this communication. I am, or rather was, a minister, of the Sandemanian connection. I was settled in the active, wide-awake town of Naguadavick, on one of the finest water-powers in Maine. We used to call it a Western town in the heart of the civilization of New England. A charming place it was and is. A spirited, brave young parish had I; and it seemed as if we might have all "the joy of eventful living" to our heart's content. Alas! how little we knew on the day of my ordination, and in those halcyon moments of our first house-keeping. To be the confidential friend in a hundred families in the town,--cutting the social trifle, as my friend Haliburton says, "from the top of the whipped syllabub to the bottom of the sponge-cake, which is the foundation,"--to keep abreast of the thought of the age in one's study, and to do one's best on Sunday to interweave that thought with the active life of an active town, and to inspirit both and make both infinite by glimpses of the Eternal Glory, seemed such an exquisite forelook into one's life! Enough to do, and all so real and so grand! If this vision could only have lasted! The truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion, nor, indeed, half bright enough. If one could only have been left to do his own business, the vision would have accomplished itself and brought out new paraheliacal visions, each as bright as the original. The misery was and is, as we found out, I and Polly, before long, that besides the vision, and besides the usual human and finite failures in life (such as breaking the old pitcher that came over in the "Mayflower" and putting into the fire the Alpenstock with which her father climbed Mont Blanc),--besides these, I say (imitating the style of Robinson Crusoe), there were pitchforked in on us a great rowen-heap of humbugs, handed down from some unknown seed-time, in which we were expected, and I chiefly, to fulfil certain public functions before the community, of the character of those fulfilled by the third row of supernumeraries who stand behind the Sepoys in the spectacle of the "Cataract of the Ganges." They were the duties, in a word, which one performs as member of one or another social class or subdivision, wholly distinct from what one does as A. by himself A. What invisible power put these functions on me, it would be very hard to tell. But such power there was and is. And I had not been at work a year before I found I was living two lives, one real and one merely functional,--for two sets of people, one my parish, whom I loved, and the other a vague public, for whom I did not care two straws. All this was in a vague notion, which everybody had and has, that this second life would eventually bring out some great results, unknown at present, to somebody somewhere. Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. Wigan on the "Duality of the Brain," hoping that I could train one side of my head to do these outside jobs, and the other to do my intimate and real duties. For Richard Greenough once told me, that, in studying for the statue of Franklin, he found that the left side of the great man's face was philosophic and reflective, and the right side funny and smiling. If you will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he has repeated this observation there for posterity. The eastern profile is the portrait of the statesman Franklin, the western of poor Richard. But Dr. Wigan does not go into these niceties of this subject, and I failed. It was then that, on my wife's suggestion, I resolved to look out for a Double. I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened to be recreating at Stafford Springs that summer. We rode out one day, for one of the relaxations of that watering-place, to the great Monson Poorhouse. We were passing through one of the large halls, when my destiny was fulfilled! He was not shaven. He had on no spectacles. He was dressed in a green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn sadly at the knee. But I saw at once that he was of my height, five feet four and a half. He had black hair, worn off by his hat. So have and have not I. He stooped in walking. So do I. His hands were large, and mine. And--choicest gift of Fate in all--he had, not "a strawberry-mark on his left arm," but a cut from a juvenile brickbat over his right eye, slightly affecting the play of that eyebrow. Reader, so have I! My fate was sealed! A word with Mr. Holley, one of the inspectors, settled the whole thing. It proved that this Dennis Shea was a harmless, amiable fellow, of the class known as shiftless, who had sealed his fate by marrying a dumb wife, who was at that moment ironing in the laundry. Before I left Stafford, I had hired both for five years. We had applied to Judge Pynchon, then the probate judge at Springfield, to change the name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham. We had explained to the Judge, what was the precise truth, that an eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis, under this new name, into his family. It never occurred to him that Dennis might be more than fourteen years old. And thus, to shorten this preface, when we returned at night to my parsonage at Naguadavick, there entered Mrs. Ingham, her new dumb laundress, myself, who am Mr. Frederic Ingham, and my double, who was Mr. Frederic Ingham by as good right as I. O the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard to my pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching him how to wear and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles! Really, they were electro-plate, and the glass was plain (for the poor fellow's eyes were excellent). Then in four successive afternoons I taught him four speeches. I had found these would be quite enough for the supernumerary-Sepoy line of life, and it was well for me they were; for though he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, as our national proverb says, "like pulling teeth," to teach him. But at the end of the next week he could say, with quite my easy and frisky air,-- 1. "Very well, thank you. And you?" This for a answer to casual salutations. 2. "I am very glad you liked it." 3. "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." 4. "I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room." At first I had a feeling that I was going to be at great cost for clothing him. But it proved, of course, at once, that, whenever he was out, I should be at home. And I went, during the bright period of his success, to so few of those awful pageants which require a black dress-coat and what the ungodly call, after Mr. Dickens, a white choker, that in the happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns and jackets my days went by as happily and cheaply as those of another Thalaba. And Polly declares there was never a year when the tailoring cost so little. He lived (Dennis, not Thalaba) in his wife's room over the kitchen. He had orders never to show himself at that window. When he appeared in the front of the house, I retired to my sanctissimum and my dressing-gown. In short, the Dutchman and his wife, in the old weather-box, had not less to do with each other than he and I. He made the furnace-fire and split the wood before daylight; then he went to sleep again, and slept late; then came for orders, with a red silk bandanna tied round his head, with his overalls on, and his dress-coat and spectacles off. If we happened to be interrupted, no one guessed that he was Frederic Ingham as well as I; and, in the neighborhood, there grew up an impression that the minister's Irishman worked day-times in the factory-village at New Coventry. After I had given him his orders, I never saw him till the next day. I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the Enlightenment Board. The Enlightenment Board consists of seventy-four members, of whom sixty-seven are necessary to form a quorum. One becomes a member under the regulations laid down in old Judge Dudley's will. I became one by being ordained pastor of a church in Naguadavick. You see you cannot help yourself, if you would. At this particular time we had had four successive meetings, averaging four hours each,--wholly occupied in whipping in a quorum. At the first only eleven men were present; at the next, by force of three circulars, twenty-seven; at the third, thanks to two days' canvassing by Auchmuty and myself, begging men to come, we had sixty. Half the others were in Europe. But without a quorum we could do nothing. All the rest of us waited grimly for our four hours, and adjourned without any action. At the fourth meeting we had flagged, and only got fifty-nine together. But on the first appearance of my double,--whom I sent on this fatal Monday to the fifth meeting,--he was the _sixty-seventh_ man who entered the room. He was greeted with a storm of applause! The poor fellow had missed his way,--read the street signs ill through his spectacles (very ill, in fact, without them),--and had not dared to inquire. He entered the room,--finding the president and secretary holding to their chairs two judges of the Supreme Court, who were also members _ex officio_, and were begging leave to go away. On his entrance all was changed. _Presto_, the by-laws were suspended, and the Western property was given away. Nobody stopped to converse with him. He voted, as I had charged him to do, in every instance, with the minority. I won new laurels as a man of sense, though a little unpunctual,--and Dennis, _alias_ Ingham, returned to the parsonage, astonished to see with how little wisdom the world is governed. He cut a few of my parishioners in the street; but he had his glasses off, and I am known to be near-sighted. Eventually he recognized them more readily than I. I "set him again" at the exhibition of the New Coventry Academy; and here he undertook a "speaking part,"--as, in my boyish, worldly days, I remember the bills used to say of Mlle. Celeste. We are all trustees of the New Coventry Academy; and there has lately been "a good deal of feeling" because the Sandemanian trustees did not regularly attend the exhibitions. It has been intimated, indeed, that the Sandemanians are leaning towards Free-Will, and that we have, therefore, neglected these semiannual exhibitions, while there is no doubt that Auchmuty last year went to Commencement at Waterville. Now the head master at New Coventry is a real good fellow, who knows a Sanskrit root when he sees it, and often cracks etymologies with me,--so that, in strictness, I ought to go to their exhibitions. But think, reader, of sitting through three long July days in that Academy chapel, following the programme from TUESDAY MORNING. _English Composition._ "SUNSHINE." Miss Jones. round to _Trio on Three Pianos._ Duel from the Opera of "Midshipman Easy." _Marryat_. coming in at nine, Thursday evening! Think of this, reader, for men who know the world is trying to go backward, and who would give their lives if they could help it on! Well! The double had succeeded so well at the Board, that I sent him to the Academy. (Shade of Plato, pardon!) He arrived early on Tuesday, when, indeed, few but mothers and clergymen are generally expected, and returned in the evening to us, covered with honors. He had dined at the right hand of the chairman, and he spoke in high terms of the repast. The chairman had expressed his interest in the French conversation. "I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis; and the poor chairman, abashed, supposed the accent had been wrong. At the end of the day, the gentlemen present had been called upon for speeches,--the Rev. Frederic Ingham first, as it happened; upon which Dennis had risen, and had said, "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." The girls were delighted, because Dr. Dabney, the year before, had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety of behavior at lyceum lectures. They all declared Mr. Ingham was a love,--and _so_ handsome! (Dennis is good-looking.) Three of them, with arms behind the others' waists, followed him up to the wagon he rode home in; and a little girl with a blue sash had been sent to give him a rosebud. After this _début_ in speaking, he went to the exhibition for two days more, to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned. Indeed, Polly reported that he had pronounced the trustees' dinners of a higher grade than those of the parsonage. When the next term began, I found six of the Academy girls had obtained permission to come across the river and attend our church. But this arrangement did not long continue. After this he went to several Commencements for me, and ate the dinners provided; he sat through three of our Quarterly Conventions for me,--always voting judiciously, by the simple rule mentioned above, of siding with the minority. And I, meanwhile, who had before been losing caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof from the associations of the body, began to rise in everybody's favor. "Ingham's a good fellow,--always on hand "; "never talks much, but does the right thing at the right time"; "is not as unpunctual as he used to be,--he comes early, and sits through to the end." "He has got over his old talkative habit, too. I spoke to a friend of his about it once; and I think Ingham took it kindly," etc., etc. This voting power of Dennis was particularly valuable at the quarterly meetings of the proprietors of the Naguadavick Ferry. My wife inherited from her father some shares in that enterprise, which is not yet fully developed, though it doubtless will become a very valuable property. The law of Maine then forbade stockholders to appear by proxy at such meetings. Polly disliked to go, not being, in fact, a "hens'-rights hen," transferred her stock to me. I, after going once, disliked it more than she. But Dennis went to the next meeting, and liked it very much. He said the arm-chairs were good, the collation good, and the free rides to stockholders pleasant. He was a little frightened when they first took him upon one of the ferry-boats, but after two or three quarterly meetings he became quite brave. Thus far I never had any difficulty with him. Indeed, being, as I implied, of that type which is called shiftless, he was only too happy to be told daily what to do, and to be charged not to be forthputting or in any way original in his discharge of that duty. He learned, however, to discriminate between the lines of his life, and very much preferred these stockholders' meetings and trustees' dinners and Commencement collations to another set of occasions, from which he used to beg off most piteously. Our excellent brother, Dr. Fillmore, had taken a notion at this time that our Sandemanian churches needed more expression of mutual sympathy. He insisted upon it that we were remiss. He said, that, if the Bishop came to preach at Naguadavick, all the Episcopal clergy of the neighborhood were present; if Dr. Pond came, all the Congregational clergymen turned out to hear him; if Dr. Nichols, all the Unitarians; and he thought we owed it to each other, that, whenever there was an occasional service at a Sandemanian church, the other brethren should all, if possible, attend. "It looked well," if nothing more. Now this really meant that I had not been to hear one of Dr. Fillmore's lectures on the Ethnology of Religion. He forgot that he did not hear one of my course on the "Sandemanianism of Anselm." But I felt badly when he said it; and afterwards I always made Dennis go to hear all the brethren preach, when I was not preaching myself. This was what he took exceptions to,--the only thing, as I said, which he ever did except to. Now came the advantage of his long morning-nap, and of the green tea with which Polly supplied the kitchen. But he would plead, so humbly, to be let off, only from one or two! I never excepted him, however. I knew the lectures were of value, and I thought it best he should be able to keep the connection. Polly is more rash than I am, as the reader has observed in the outset of this memoir. She risked Dennis one night under the eyes of her own sex. Governor Gorges had always been very kind to us, and, when he gave his great annual party to the town, asked us. I confess I hated to go. I was deep in the new volume of Pfeiffer's "Mystics," which Haliburton had just sent me from Boston. "But how rude," said Polly, "not to return the Governor's civility and Mrs. Gorges's, when they will be sure to ask why you are away!" Still I demurred, and at last she, with the wit of Eve and of Semiramis conjoined, let me off by saying that, if I would go in with her, and sustain the initial conversations with the Governor and the ladies staying there, she would risk Dennis for the rest of the evening. And that was just what we did. She took Dennis in training all that afternoon, instructed him in fashionable conversation, cautioned him against the temptations of the supper-table,--and at nine in the evening he drove us all down in the carryall. I made the grand star-_entrée_ with Polly and the pretty Walton girls, who were staying with us. We had put Dennis into a great rough top-coat, without his glasses: and the girls never dreamed, in the darkness, of looking at him. He sat in the carriage, at the door, while we entered. I did the agreeable to Mrs. Gorges, was introduced to her niece, Miss Fernanda; I complimented Judge Jeffries on his decision in the great case of D'Aulnay _vs._ Laconia Mining Company; I stepped into the dressing-room for a moment, stepped out for another, walked home after a nod with Dennis and tying the horse to a pump; and while I walked home, Mr. Frederic Ingham, my double, stepped in through the library into the Gorges's grand saloon. Oh! Polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight! And even here, where I have to teach my hands to hew the beech for stakes to fence our cave, she dies of laughing as she recalls it,--and says that single occasion was worth all we have paid for it. Gallant Eve that she is! She joined Dennis at the library-door, and in an instant presented him to Dr. Ochterlony, from Baltimore, who was on a visit in town, and was talking with her as Dennis came in. "Mr. Ingham would like to hear what you were telling us about your success among the German population." And Dennis bowed and said, in spite of a scowl from Polly, "I'm very glad you liked it." But Dr. Ochterlony did not observe, and plunged into the tide of explanation; Dennis listened like a prime-minister, and bowing like a mandarin, which is, I suppose, the same thing. Polly declared it was just like Haliburton's Latin conversation with the Hungarian minister, of which he is very fond of telling. "_Quæne sit historia Reformationis in Ungariâ?_" quoth Haliburton, after some thought. And his _confrère_ replied gallantly, "_In seculo decimo tertio_," etc., etc., etc.; and from _decimo tertio_[P] to the nineteenth century and a half lasted till the oysters came. So was it that before Dr. Ochterlony came to the "success," or near it, Governor Gorges came to Dennis, and asked him to hand Mrs. Jeffries down to supper, a request which he heard with great joy. Polly was skipping round the room, I guess, gay as a lark. Auchmuty came to her "in pity for poor Ingham," who was so bored by the stupid pundit,--and Auchmuty could not understand why I stood it so long. But when Dennis took Mrs. Jeffries down, Polly could not resist standing near them. He was a little flustered, till the sight of the eatables and drinkables gave him the same Mercian courage which it gave Diggory. A little excited then, he attempted one or two of his speeches to the Judge's lady. But little he knew how hard it was to get in even a _promptu_ there edgewise. "Very well, I thank you," said he, after the eating elements were adjusted; "and you?" And then did not he have to hear about the mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and belladonna, and chamomile-flower, and dodecatheon, till she changed oysters for salad; and then about the old practice and the new, and what her sister said, and what her sister's friend said, and what the physician to her sister's friend said, and then what was said by the brother of the sister of the physician of the friend of her sister, exactly as if it had been in Ollendorff? There was a moment's pause, as she declined Champagne. "I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis again, which he never should have said but to one who complimented a sermon. "Oh! you are so sharp, Mr. Ingham! No! I never drink any wine at all,--except sometimes in summer a little currant shrub,--from our own currants, you know. My own mother,--that is, I call her my own mother, because, you know, I do not remember," etc., etc., etc.; till they came to the candied orange at the end of the feast, when Dennis, rather confused, thought he must say something, and tried No. 4,--"I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room,"--which he never should have said but at a public meeting. But Mrs. Jeffries, who never listens expecting to understand, caught him up instantly with "Well, I'm sure my husband returns the compliment; he always agrees with you,--though we do worship with the Methodists; but you know, Mr. Ingham," etc., etc., etc., till the move up-stairs; and as Dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely understood by any but Polly, as he said, "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." His great resource the rest of the evening was standing in the library, carrying on animated conversations with one and another in much the same way. Polly had initiated him in the mysteries of a discovery of mine, that it is not necessary to finish your sentences in a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals. This, indeed, if your words fail you, answers even in public extempore speech, but better where other talking is going on. Thus: "We missed you at the Natural History Society, Ingham." Ingham replies, "I am very gligloglum, that is, that you were mmmmm." By gradually dropping the voice, the interlocutor is compelled to supply the answer. "Mrs. Ingham, I hope your friend Augusta is better." Augusta has not been ill. Polly cannot think of explaining, however, and answers, "Thank you, Ma'am; she is very rearason wewahwewoh," in lower and lower tones. And Mrs. Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke as soon as she asked the question, is quite satisfied. Dennis could see into the card-room, and came to Polly to ask if he might not go and play all-fours. But, of course, she sternly refused. At midnight they came home delighted,--Polly, as I said, wild to tell me the story of the victory; only both the pretty Walton girls said, "Cousin Frederic, you did not come near me all the evening." We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, though his real name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained. When the election-day came round, however, I found that by some accident there was only one Frederic Ingham's name on the voting-list; and as I was quite busy that day in writing some foreign letters to Halle, I thought I would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay quietly at home, telling Dennis that he might use the record on the voting-list, and vote. I gave him a ticket, which I told him he might use, if he liked to. That was that very sharp election in Maine which the readers of the Atlantic so well remember, and it had been intimated in public that the ministers would do well not to appear at the polls. Of course, after that, we had to appear by self or proxy. Still, Naguadavick was not then a city, and this standing in a double queue at town-meeting several hours to vote was a bore of the first water; and so when I found that there was but one Frederic Ingham on the list, and that one of us must give up, I stayed at home and finished the letters (which, indeed, procured for Fothergill his coveted appointment of Professor of Astronomy at Leavenworth), and I gave Dennis, as we called him, the chance. Something in the matter gave a good deal of popularity to the Frederic Ingham name; and at the adjourned election, next week, Frederic Ingham was chosen to the legislature. Whether this was I or Dennis I never really knew. My friends seemed to think it was I; but I felt that as Dennis had done the popular thing, he was entitled to the honor; so I sent him to Augusta when the time came, and he took the oaths. And a very valuable member he made. They appointed him on the Committee on Parishes; but I wrote a letter for him, resigning, on the ground that he took an interest in our claim to the stumpage in the minister's sixteenths of Gore A, next No. 7, in the 10th Range. He never made any speeches, and always voted with the minority, which was what he was sent to do. He made me and himself a great many good friends, some of whom I did not afterwards recognize as quickly as Dennis did my parishioners. On one or two occasions, when there was wood to saw at home, I kept him at home; but I took those occasions to go to Augusta myself. Finding myself often in his vacant seat at these times, I watched the proceedings with a good deal of care; and once was so much excited that I delivered my somewhat celebrated speech on the Central School-District question, a speech of which the "State of Maine" printed some extra copies. I believe there is no formal rule permitting strangers to speak; but no one objected. Dennis himself, as I said, never spoke at all. But our experience this session led me to think that if, by some such "general understanding" as the reports speak of in legislation daily, every member of Congress might leave a double to sit through those deadly sessions and answer to roll-calls and do the legitimate party-voting, which appears stereotyped in the regular list of Ashe, Bocock, Black, etc., we should gain decidedly in working-power. As things stand, the saddest State prison I ever visit is that Representatives' Chamber in Washington. If a man leaves for an hour, twenty "correspondents" may be howling, "Where was Mr. Pendergrast when the Oregon bill passed?" And if poor Pendergrast stays there! Certainly the worst use you can make of a man is to put him in prison! I know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have resorted to this expedient long ago. Dumas's novel of the "Iron Mask" turns on the brutal imprisonment of Louis the Fourteenth's double. There seems little doubt, in our own history, that it was the real General Pierce who shed tears when the delegate from Lawrence explained to him the sufferings of the people there, and only General Pierce's double who had given the orders for the assault on that town, which was invaded the next day. My charming friend, George Withers, has, I am almost sure, a double, who preaches his afternoon sermons for him. This is the reason that the theology often varies so from that of the forenoon. But that double is almost as charming as the original. Some of the most well defined men, who stand out most prominently on the background of history, are in this way stereoscopic men, who owe their distinct relief to the slight differences between the doubles. All this I know. My present suggestion is simply the great extension of the system, so that all public machine-work may be done by it. But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the plunge. Let me stop an instant more, however, to recall, were it only to myself, that charming year while all was yet well. After the double had become a matter of course, for nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a year it was! Full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfilment of so many of the fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood! Dennis went to every school-committee meeting, and sat through all those late wranglings which used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morning. He attended all the lectures to which foreign exiles sent me tickets begging me to come for the love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted and used all the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to me. He appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that "our denomination," or "our party," or "our class," or "our family," or "our street," or "our town," or "our country," or "our State," should be fully represented. And I fell back to that charming life which in boyhood one dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty and make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of other people. My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and English began to take polish. Heavens! how little I had done with them while I attended to my _public_ duties! My calls on my parishioners became the friendly, frequent, homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead of the hard work of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of his lists of arrears. And preaching! what a luxury preaching was when I had on Sunday the whole result of an individual, personal week, from which to speak to a people whom all that week I had been meeting as hand-to-hand friend;--I, never tired on Sunday, and in condition to leave the sermon at home, if I chose, and preach it extempore, as all men should do always. Indeed, I wonder, when I think that a sensible people, like ours,--really more attached to their clergy than they were in the lost days, when the Mathers and Nortons were noblemen,--should choose to neutralize so much of their ministers' lives, and destroy so much of their early training, by this undefined passion for seeing them in public. It springs from our balancing of sects. If a spirited Episcopalian takes an interest in the almshouse, and is put on the Poor Board, every other denomination must have a minister there, lest the poorhouse be changed into St. Paul's Cathedral. If a Sandemanian is chosen president of the Young Men's Library, there must be a Methodist vice-president and a Baptist secretary. And if a Universalist Sunday-School Convention collects five hundred delegates, the next Congregationalist Sabbath-School Conference must be as large, "lest 'they'--whoever _they_ may be--should think 'we'--whoever _we_ may be--are going down." Freed from these necessities, that happy year I began to know my wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes. In those long mornings, when Dennis was in the study explaining to map-peddlers that, I had eleven maps of Jerusalem already, and to school-book agents that I would see them hanged before I would be bribed to introduce their text-books into the schools,--she and I were at work together, as in those old dreamy days,--and in these of our log-cabin again. But all this could not last,--and at length poor Dennis, my double, overtasked in turn, undid me. It was thus it happened. There is an excellent fellow, once a minister,--I will call him Isaacs,--who deserves well of the world till he dies, and after, because he once, in a real exigency, did the right thing, in the right way, at the right time, as no other man could do it. In the world's great football match, the ball by chance found him loitering on the outside of the field; he closed with it, "camped" it, charged it home,--yes, right through the other side,--not disturbed, not frightened by his own success,--and breathless found himself a great man, as the Great Delta rang applause. But he did not find himself a rich man; and the football has never come in his way again. From that moment to this moment he has been of no use, that one can see at all. Still, for that great act we speak of Isaacs gratefully and remember him kindly; and he forges on, hoping to meet the football somewhere again. In that vague hope, he had arranged a "movement" for a general organization of the human family into Debating-Clubs, County Societies, State Unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all children to take hold of the handles of their knives and forks, instead of the metal. Children have bad habits in that way. The movement, of course, was absurd; but we all did our best to forward, not it, but him. It came time for the annual county-meeting on this subject to be held at Naguadavick. Isaacs came round, good fellow! to arrange for it,--got the town-hall, got the Governor to preside (the saint!--he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by law), and then came to get me to speak. "No," I said, "I would not speak, if ten Governors presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I spoke, it should be to say children should take hold of the prongs of the forks and the blades of the knives. I would subscribe ten dollars, but I would not speak a mill." So poor Isaacs went his way sadly, to coax Auchmuty to speak, and Delafield. I went out. Not long after he came back, and told Polly that they had promised to speak, the Governor would speak, and he himself would close with the quarterly report, and some interesting anecdotes regarding Miss Biffin's way of handling her knife and Mr. Nellis's way of footing his fork. "Now if Mr. Ingham will only come and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but it will show well in the paper,--it will show that the Sandemanians take as much interest in the movement as the Armenians or the Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me." Polly, good soul! was tempted, and she promised. She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the babies,--she knew Dennis was at home,--and she promised! Night came, and I returned. I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted. But Polly had promised to beg me, and I dared all! I told Dennis to hold his peace, under all circumstances, and sent him down. It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with excitement,--in a perfect Irish fury,--which it was long before I understood. But I knew at once that he had undone me! What happened was this. The audience got together, attracted by Governor Gorges's name. There were a thousand people. Poor Gorges was late from Augusta. They became impatient. He came in direct from the train at last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting. He opened it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present who would entertain them better than he. The audience were disappointed, but waited. The Governor, prompted by Isaacs, said, "The Honorable Mr. Delafield will address you." Delafield had forgotten the knives and forks, and was playing the Ruy Lopez opening at the chess-club. "The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will address you." Auchmuty had promised to speak late, and was at the school-committee. "I see Dr. Stearns in the hall; perhaps he will say a word." Dr. Stearns said he had come to listen and not to speak The Governor and Isaacs whispered. The Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but Isaacs, to give him his due, shook his head. But the look was enough. A miserable lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it would sound well to call for me, and peeped out, "Ingham!" A few more wretches cried, "Ingham! Ingham!" Still Isaacs was firm; but the Governor, anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew I would say something, and said, "Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared; and, though we had not relied upon him, he will say a word perhaps." Applause followed, which turned Dennis's head. He rose, fluttered, and tried No. 3: "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!" and sat down, looking for his hat; for things seemed squally. But the people cried, "Go on! go on!" and some applauded. Dennis, still confused, but flattered by the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, rose again, and this time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you liked it!" in a sonorous, clear delivery. My best friends stared. All the people who did not know me personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs thought he was undone! Alas, it was I! A boy in the gallery cried in a loud tone, "It's all an infernal humbug," just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4: "I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room." The poor Governor doubted his senses and crossed to stop him,--not in time, however. The same gallery-boy shouted, "How's your mother?" and Dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last shot, No. 1, vainly: "Very well, thank you; and you?" I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis, like another Lockhard, chose "to make sicker." The audience rose in a whirl of amazement, rage, and sorrow. Some other impertinence, aimed at Dennis, broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered himself of an address to the gallery, inviting any person who wished to fight to come down and do so,--stating, that they were all dogs and cowards and the sons of dogs and cowards,--that he would take any five of them single-handed. "Shure, I have said all his Riverence and the Misthress bade me say," cried he, in defiance; and, seizing the Governor's cane from his hand, brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his head. He was, indeed, got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty by the Governor, the City Marshal, who had been called in, and the Superintendent of my Sunday-School. The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev. Frederic Ingham had lost all command of himself in some of those haunts of intoxication which for fifteen years I have been laboring to destroy. Till this moment, indeed, that is the impression in Naguadavick. This number of the Atlantic will relieve from it a hundred friends of mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion now for years; but I shall not be likely ever to show my head there again. No! My double has undone me. We left town at seven the next morning. I came to No. 9, in the Third Range, and settled on the Minister's Lot. In the new towns in Maine, the first settled minister has a gift of a hundred acres of land. I am the first settled minister in No. 9. My wife and little Paulina are my parish. We raise corn enough to live on in summer. We kill bear's meat enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on steadily on my "Traces of Sandemanianism in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries," which I hope to persuade Phillips, Sampson, & Co. to publish next year. We are very happy, but the world thinks we are undone. THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC [This story originated in the advertisement of the humbug which it describes. Some fifteen or twenty years since, when gift enterprises rose to one of their climaxes, a gift of a large sum of money, I think $10,000, was offered in New York to the most successful ticket-holder in some scheme, and one of $5,000 to the second. It was arranged that one of these parties should be a man and the other a woman; and the amiable suggestion was added, on the part of the undertaker of the enterprise, that if the gentleman and lady who drew these prizes liked each other sufficiently well when the distribution was made, they might regard the decision as a match made for them in Heaven, and take the money as the dowry of the bride. This thoroughly practical, and, at the same time, thoroughly absurd suggestion, arrested the attention of a distinguished story-teller, a dear friend of mine, who proposed to me that we should each of us write the history of one of the two successful parties, to be woven together by their union at the end. The plan, however, lay latent for years,--the gift enterprise of course blew up,--and it was not until the summer of 1862 that I wrote my half of the proposed story, with the hope of eliciting the other half. My friend's more important engagements, however, have thus far kept Fausta's detailed biography from the light. I sent my half to Mr. Frank Leslie, in competition for a premium offered by him, as is stated in the second chapter of the story. And the story found such favor in the eyes of the judges, that it received one of his second premiums. The first was very properly awarded to Miss Louisa Alcott, for a story of great spirit and power. "The Children of the Public" was printed in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper for January 24 and January 31, 1863. The moral which it tries to illustrate, which is, I believe, an important one, was thus commended to the attention of the very large circle of the readers of that journal,--a journal to which I am eager to say I think this nation has been very largely indebted for the loyalty, the good sense, and the high tone which seem always to characterize it. During the war, the pictorial journals had immense influence in the army, and they used this influence with an undeviating regard to the true honor of the country.] * * * * * CHAPTER I. THE PORK-BARREL. "Felix," said my wife to me, as I came home to-night, "you will have to go to the pork-barrel." "Are you quite sure," said I,--"quite sure? 'Woe to him,' says the oracle, 'who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of his need.'" "And woe to him, say I," replied my brave wife,--"woe and disaster to him; but the moment of our need has come. The figures are here, and you shall see. I have it all in black and in white." And so it proved, indeed, that when Miss Sampson, the nurse, was paid for her month's service, and when the boys had their winter boots, and when my life-insurance assessment was provided for, and the new payment for the insurance on the house,--when the taxes were settled with the collector (and my wife had to lay aside double for the war),--when the pew-rent was paid for the year, and the water-rate--we must have to start with, on the 1st of January, one hundred dollars. This, as we live, would pay, in cash, the butcher, and the grocer, and the baker, and all the dealers in things that perish, and would buy the omnibus tickets, and recompense Bridget till the 1st of April. And at my house, if we can see forward three months we are satisfied. But, at my house, we are never satisfied if there is a credit at any store for us. We are sworn to pay as we go. We owe no man anything. So it was that my wife said: "Felix, you will have to go to the pork-barrel." This is the story of the pork-barrel. It happened once, in a little parish in the Green Mountains, that the deacon reported to Parson Plunkett, that, as he rode to meeting by Chung-a-baug Pond, he saw Michael Stowers fishing for pickerel through a hole in the ice on the Sabbath day. The parson made note of the complaint, and that afternoon drove over to the pond in his "one-horse shay." He made his visit, not unacceptable, on the poor Stowers household, and then crossed lots to the place where he saw poor Michael hoeing. He told Michael that he was charged with Sabbath breaking, and bade him plead to the charge. And poor Mike, like a man, plead guilty; but, in extenuation, he said that there was nothing to eat in the house, and rather than see wife and children faint, he had cut a hole in the ice, had put in his hook again and again, and yet again, and coming home had delighted the waiting family with an unexpected breakfast. The good parson made no rebuke, nodded pensive, and drove straightway to the deacon's door. "Deacon," said he, "what meat did you eat for breakfast yesterday?" The deacon's family had eaten salt pork, fried. "And where did you get the pork, Deacon?" The Deacon stared, but said he had taken it from his pork-barrel. "Yes, Deacon," said the old man; "I supposed so. I have been to see Brother Stowers, to talk to him about his Sabbath-breaking; and, Deacon, I find the pond is his pork-barrel." The story is a favorite with me and with Fausta. But "woe," says the oracle, "to him who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of his need." And to that "woe" both Fausta and I say "amen." For we know that there is no fish in our pond for spend-thrifts or for lazy-bones; none for people who wear gold chains or Attleborough jewelry; none for people who are ashamed of cheap carpets or wooden mantelpieces. Not for those who run in debt will the fish bite; nor for those who pretend to be richer or better or wiser than they are. No! But we have found, in our lives, that in a great democracy there reigns a great and gracious sovereign. We have found that this sovereign, in a reckless and unconscious way, is, all the time, making the most profuse provision for all the citizens. We have found that those who are not too grand to trust him fare as well as they deserve. We have found, on the other hand, that those who lick his feet or flatter his follies fare worst of living men. We find that those who work honestly, and only seek a man's fair average of life, or a woman's, get that average, though sometimes by the most singular experiences in the long run. And thus we find that, when an extraordinary contingency arises in life, as just now in ours, we have only to go to our pork-barrel, and the fish rises to our hook or spear. The sovereign brings this about in all sorts of ways, but he does not fail, if, without flattering him, you trust him. Of this sovereign the name is--"the Public." Fausta and I are apt to call ourselves his children, and so I name this story of our lives, "THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC." CHAPTER II. WHERE IS THE BARREL? "Where is the barrel this time, Fausta?" said I, after I had added and subtracted her figures three times, to be sure she had carried her tens and hundreds rightly. For the units, in such accounts, in face of Dr. Franklin, I confess I do not care. "The barrel," said she, "is in FRANK LESLIE'S OFFICE. Here is the mark!" and she handed me FRANK LESLIE'S NEWSPAPER, with a mark at this announcement:-- $100 for the best Short Tale of from one to two pages of FRANK LESLIE'S ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPER, to be sent in on or before the 1st of November, 1862. "There is another barrel," she said, "with $5,000 in it, and another with $1,000. But we do not want $5,000 or $1,000. There is a little barrel with $50 in it. But see here, with all this figuring, I cannot make it do. I have stopped the gas now, and I have turned the children's coats,--I wish you would see how well Robert's looks,--and I have had a new tile put in the cook-stove, instead of buying that lovely new 'Banner.' But all will not do. We must go to this barrel." "And what is to be the hook, darling, this time?" said I. "I have been thinking of it all day. I hope you will not hate it,--I know you will not like it exactly; but why not write down just the whole story of what it is to be 'Children of the Public'; how we came to live here, you know; how we built the house, and--all about it?" "How Felix knew Fausta," said I; "and how Fausta first met Felix, perhaps; and when they first kissed each other; and what she said to him when they did so." "Tell that, if you dare," said Fausta; "but perhaps--the oracle says we must not be proud--perhaps you might tell just a little. You know--really almost everybody is named Carter now; and I do not believe the neighbors will notice,--perhaps they won't read the paper. And if they do notice it, I don't care! There!" "It will not be so bad as--" But I never finished the sentence. An imperative gesture closed my lips physically as well as metaphorically, and I was glad to turn the subject enough to sit down to tea with the children. After the bread and butter we agreed what we might and what we might not tell, and then I wrote what the reader is now to see. CHAPTER III. MY LIFE TO ITS CRISIS. New-Yorkers of to-day see so many processions, and live through so many sensations, and hurrah for so many heroes in every year, that it is only the oldest of fogies who tells you of the triumphant procession of steamboats which, in the year 1824, welcomed General Lafayette on his arrival from his tour through the country he had so nobly served. But, if the reader wishes to lengthen out this story he may button the next silver-gray friend he meets, and ask him to tell of the broken English and broken French of the Marquis, of Levasseur, and the rest of them; of the enthusiasm of the people and the readiness of the visitors, and he will please bear in mind that of all that am I. For it so happened that on the morning when, for want of better lions to show, the mayor and governor and the rest of them took the Marquis and his secretary, and the rest of them, to see the orphan asylum in Deering Street,--as they passed into the first ward, after having had "a little refreshment" in the managers' room, Sally Eaton, the head nurse, dropped the first courtesy to them, and Sally Eaton, as it happened, held me screaming in her arms. I had been sent to the asylum that morning with a paper pinned to my bib, which said my name was Felix Carter. "Eet ees verra fine," said the Marquis, smiling blandly. "Ràvissant!" said Levasseur, and he dropped a five-franc piece into Sally Eaton's hand. And so the procession of exhibiting managers talking bad French, and of exhibited Frenchmen talking bad English, passed on; all but good old Elkanah Ogden--God bless him!--who happened to have come there with the governor's party, and who loitered a minute to talk with Sally Eaton about me. Years afterwards she told me how the old man kissed me, how his eyes watered when he asked my story, how she told again of the moment when I was heard screaming on the doorstep, and how she offered to go and bring the paper which had been pinned to my bib. But the old man said it was no matter,--"only we would have called him Marquis," said he, "if his name was not provided for him. We must not leave him here," he said; "he shall grow up a farmer's lad, and not a little cockney." And so, instead of going the grand round of infirmaries, kitchens, bakeries, and dormitories with the rest, the good old soul went back into the managers' room, and wrote at the moment a letter to John Myers, who took care of his wild land in St. Lawrence County for him, to ask him if Mrs. Myers would not bring up an orphan baby by hand for him; and if, both together, they would not train this baby till he said "stop"; if, on the other hand, he allowed them, in the yearly account, a hundred dollars each year for the charge. Anybody who knows how far a hundred dollars goes in the backwoods, in St. Lawrence County, will know that any settler would be glad to take a ward so recommended. Anybody who knew Betsy Myers as well as old Elkanah Ogden did, would know she would have taken any orphan brought to her door, even if he were not recommended at all. So it happened, thanks to Lafayette and the city council! that I had not been a "Child of the Public" a day, before, in its great, clumsy, liberal way, it had provided for me. I owed my healthy, happy home of the next fourteen years in the wilderness to those marvellous habits, which I should else call absurd, with which we lionize strangers. Because our hospitals and poorhouses are the largest buildings we have, we entertain the Prince of Wales and Jenny Lind alike, by showing them crazy people and paupers. Easy enough to laugh at is the display; but if, dear Public, it happen, that by such a habit you ventilate your Bridewell or your Bedlam, is not the ventilation, perhaps, a compensation for the absurdity? I do not know if Lafayette was any the better for his seeing the Deering Street Asylum; but I do know I was. This is no history of my life. It is only an illustration of one of its principles. I have no anecdotes of wilderness life to tell, and no sketch of the lovely rugged traits of John and Betsy Myers,--my real father and mother. I have no quest for the pretended parents, who threw me away in my babyhood, to record. They closed accounts with me when they left me on the asylum steps, and I with them. I grew up with such schooling as the public gave,--ten weeks in winter always, and ten in summer, till I was big enough to work on the farm,--better periods of schools, I hold, than on the modern systems. Mr. Ogden I never saw. Regularly he allowed for me the hundred a year till I was nine years old, and then suddenly he died, as the reader perhaps knows. But John Myers kept me as his son, none the less. I knew no change until, when I was fourteen, he thought it time for me to see the world, and sent me to what, in those days, was called a "Manual-Labor School." There was a theory coming up in those days, wholly unfounded in physiology, that if a man worked five hours with his hands, he could study better in the next five. It is all nonsense. Exhaustion is exhaustion; and if you exhaust a vessel by one stopcock, nothing is gained or saved by closing that and opening another. The old up-country theory is the true one. Study ten weeks and chop wood fifteen; study ten more and harvest fifteen. But the "Manual-Labor School" offered itself for really no pay, only John Myers and I carried over, I remember, a dozen barrels of potatoes when I went there with my books. The school was kept at Roscius, and if I would work in the carpenter's shop and on the school farm five hours, why they would feed me and teach me all they knew in what I had of the day beside. "Felix," said John, as he left me, "I do not suppose this is the best school in the world, unless you make it so. But I do suppose you can make it so. If you and I went whining about, looking for the best school in the world, and for somebody to pay your way through it, I should die, and you would lose your voice with whining, and we should not find one after all. This is what the public happens to provide for you and me. We won't look a gift-horse in the mouth. Get on his back, Felix; groom him well as you can when you stop, feed him when you can, and at all events water him well and take care of him well. My last advice to you, Felix, is to take what is offered you, and never complain because nobody offers more." Those words are to be cut on my seal-ring, if I ever have one, and if Dr. Anthon or Professor Webster will put them into short enough Latin for me. That is the motto of the "Children of the Public." John Myers died before that term was out. And my more than mother, Betsy, went back to her friends in Maine. After the funeral I never saw them more. How I lived from that moment to what Fausta and I call the Crisis is nobody's concern. I worked in the shop at the school, or on the farm. Afterwards I taught school in neighboring districts. I never bought a ticket in a lottery or a raffle. But whenever there was a chance to do an honest stroke of work, I did it. I have walked fifteen miles at night to carry an election return to the _Tribune's_ agent at Gouverneur. I have turned out in the snow to break open the road when the supervisor could not find another man in the township. When Sartain started his magazine, I wrote an essay in competition for his premiums, and the essay earned its hundred dollars. When the managers of the "Orphan Home," in Baltimore, offered their prizes for papers on bad boys, I wrote for one of them, and that helped me on four hard months. There was no luck in those things. I needed the money, and I put my hook into the pork-barrel,--that is, I trusted the Public. I never had but one stroke of luck in my life. I wanted a new pair of boots badly. I was going to walk to Albany, to work in the State library on the history of the Six Nations, which had an interest for me. I did not have a dollar. Just then there passed Congress the bill dividing the surplus revenue. The State of New York received two or three millions, and divided it among the counties. The county of St. Lawrence divided it among the townships, and the township of Roscius divided it among the voters. Two dollars and sixty cents of Uncle Sam's money came to me, and with that money on my feet I walked to Albany. That I call luck! How many fools had to assent in an absurdity before I could study the history of the Six Nations! But one instance told in detail is better than a thousand told in general, for the illustration of a principle. So I will detain you no longer from the history of what Fausta and I call THE CRISIS. CHAPTER IV. THE CRISIS. I was at work as a veneerer in a piano-forte factory at Attica, when some tariff or other was passed or repealed; there came a great financial explosion, and our boss, among the rest, failed. He owed us all six months' wages, and we were all very poor and very blue. Jonathan Whittemore--a real good fellow, who used to cover the hammers with leather--came to me the day the shop was closed, and told me he was going to take the chance to go to Europe. He was going to the Musical Conservatory at Leipsic, if he could. He would work his passage out as a stoker. He would wash himself for three or four days at Bremen, and then get work, if he could, with Voightlander or Von Hammer till he could enter the Conservatory. By way of preparation for this he wanted me to sell him my Adler's German Dictionary. "I've nothing to give you for it, Felix, but this foolish thing,--it is one of Burrham's tickets,--which I bought in a frolic the night of our sleigh-ride. I'll transfer it to you." I told Jonathan he might have the dictionary and welcome. He was doing a sensible thing, and he would use it twenty times as much as I should. As for the ticket, he had better keep it. I did not want it. But I saw he would feel better if I took it,--so he indorsed it to me. Now the reader must know that this Burrham was a man who had got hold of one corner of the idea of what the Public could do for its children. He had found out that there were a thousand people who would be glad to make the tour of the mountains and the lakes every summer if they could do it for half-price. He found out that the railroad companies were glad enough to put the price down if they could be sure of the thousand people. He mediated between the two, and so "cheap excursions" came into being. They are one of the gifts the Public gives its children. Rising from step to step, Burrham had, just before the great financial crisis, conceived the idea of a great cheap combination, in which everybody was to receive a magazine for a year and a cyclopædia, both at half-price; and not only so, but the money that was gained in the combination was to be given by lot to two ticket-holders, one a man and one a woman, for their dowry in marriage. I dare say the reader remembers the prospectus. It savors too much of the modern "Gift Enterprise" to be reprinted in full; but it had this honest element, that everybody got more than he could get for his money in retail. I have my magazine, the old _Boston Miscellany_, to this day, and I just now looked out Levasseur's name in my cyclopædia; and, as you will see, I have reason to know that all the other subscribers got theirs. One of the tickets for these books, for which Whittemore had given five good dollars, was what he gave to me for my dictionary. And so we parted. I loitered at Attica, hoping for a place where I could put in my oar. But my hand was out at teaching, and in a time when all the world's veneers of different kinds were ripping off, nobody wanted me to put on more of my kind,--so that my cash ran low. I would not go in debt,--that is a thing I never did. More honest, I say, to go to the poorhouse, and make the Public care for its child there, than to borrow what you cannot pay. But I did not come quite to that, as you shall see. I was counting up my money one night,--and it was easily done,--when I observed that the date on this Burrham order was the 15th of October, and it occurred to me that it was not quite a fortnight before those books were to be delivered. They were to be delivered at Castle Garden, at New York; and the thought struck me that I might go to New York, try my chance there for work, and at least see the city, which I had never seen, and get my cyclopædia and magazine. It was the least offer the Public ever made to me; but just then the Public was in a collapse, and the least was better than nothing. The plan of so long a journey was Quixotic enough, and I hesitated about it a good deal. Finally I came to this resolve: I would start in the morning to walk to the lock-station at Brockport on the canal. If a boat passed that night where they would give me my fare for any work I could do for them, I would go to Albany. If not, I would walk back to Lockport the next day, and try my fortune there. This gave me, for my first day's enterprise, a foot journey of about twenty-five miles. It was out of the question, with my finances, for me to think of compassing the train. Every point of life is a pivot on which turns the whole action of our after-lives; and so, indeed, of the after-lives of the whole world. But we are so pur-blind that we only see this of certain special enterprises and endeavors, which we therefore call critical. I am sure I see it of that twenty-five miles of fresh autumnal walking. I was in tiptop spirits. I found the air all oxygen, and everything "all right." I did not loiter, and I did not hurry. I swung along with the feeling that every nerve and muscle drew, as in the trades a sailor feels of every rope and sail. And so I was not tired, not thirsty, till the brook appeared where I was to drink; nor hungry till twelve o'clock came, when I was to dine. I called myself as I walked "The Child of Good Fortune," because the sun was on my right quarter, as the sun should be when you walk, because the rain of yesterday had laid the dust for me, and the frost of yesterday had painted the hills for me, and the northwest wind cooled the air for me. I came to Wilkie's Cross-Roads just in time to meet the Claremont baker and buy my dinner loaf of him. And when my walk was nearly done, I came out on the low bridge at Sewell's, which is a drawbridge, just before they raised it for a passing boat, instead of the moment after. Because I was all right I felt myself and called myself "The Child of Good Fortune." Dear reader, in a world made by a loving Father, we are all of us children of good fortune, if we only have wit enough to find it out, as we stroll along. The last stroke of good fortune which that day had for me was the solution of my question whether or no I would go to Babylon. I was to go if any good-natured boatman would take me. This is a question, Mr. Millionnaire, more doubtful to those who have not drawn their dividends than to those who have. As I came down the village street at Brockport, I could see the horses of a boat bound eastward, led along from level to level at the last lock; and, in spite of my determination not to hurry, I put myself on the long, loping trot which the St. Regis Indians taught me, that I might overhaul this boat before she got under way at her new speed. I came out on the upper gate of the last lock just as she passed out from the lower gate. The horses were just put on, and a reckless boy gave them their first blow after two hours of rest and corn. As the heavy boat started off under the new motion, I saw, and her skipper saw at the same instant, that a long new tow-rope of his, which had lain coiled on deck, was suddenly flying out to its full length. The outer end of it had been carried upon the lock-side by some chance or blunder, and there some idle loafer had thrown the looped bight of it over a hawser-post. The loafers on the lock saw, as I did, that the rope was running out, and at the call of the skipper one of them condescended to throw the loop overboard, but he did it so carelessly that the lazy rope rolled over into the lock, and the loop caught on one of the valve-irons of the upper gate. The whole was the business of an instant, of course. But the poor skipper saw, what we did not, that the coil of the rope on deck was foul, and so entangled round his long tiller, that ten seconds would do one of three things,--they would snap his new rope in two, which was a trifle, or they would wrench his tiller-head off the rudder, which would cost him an hour to mend, or they would upset those two horses, at this instant on a trot, and put into the canal the rowdy youngster who had started them. It was this complex certainty which gave fire to the double cries which he addressed aft to us on the lock, and forward to the magnet boy, whose indifferent intelligence at that moment drew him along. I was stepping upon the gate-head to walk across it. It took but an instant, not nearly all the ten seconds, to swing down by my arms into the lock, keeping myself hanging by my hands, to catch with my right foot the bight of the rope and lift it off the treacherous iron, to kick the whole into the water, and then to scramble up the wet lock-side again. I got a little wet, but that was nothing. I ran down the tow-path, beckoned to the skipper, who sheered his boat up to the shore, and I jumped on board. At that moment, reader, Fausta was sitting in a yellow chair on the deck of that musty old boat, crocheting from a pattern in _Grodey's Lady's Book_. I remember it as I remember my breakfast of this morning. Not that I fell in love with her, nor did I fall in love with my breakfast; but I knew she was there. And that was the first time I ever saw her. It is many years since, and I have seen her every day from that evening to this evening. But I had then no business with her. My affair was with him whom I have called the skipper, by way of adapting this fresh-water narrative to ears accustomed to Marryat and Tom Cringle. I told him that I had to go to New York; that I had not time to walk, and had not money to pay; that I should like to work my passage to Troy, if there were any way in which I could; and to ask him this I had come on board. "Waal," said the skipper, "'taint much that is to be done, and Zekiel and I calc'late to do most of that and there's that blamed boy beside--" This adjective "blamed" is the virtuous oath by which simple people, who are improving their habits, cure themselves of a stronger epithet, as men take to flagroot who are abandoning tobacco. "He ain't good for nothin', as you see," continued the skipper meditatively, "and you air, anybody can see that," he added. "Ef you've mind to come to Albany, you can have your vittles, poor enough they are too; and ef you are willing to ride sometimes, you can ride. I guess where there's room for three in the bunks there's room for four. 'Taint everybody would have cast off that blamed hawser-rope as neat as you did." From which last remark I inferred, what I learned as a certainty as we travelled farther, that but for the timely assistance I had rendered him I should have plead for my passage in vain. This was my introduction to Fausta. That is to say, she heard the whole of the conversation. The formal introduction, which is omitted in no circle of American life to which I have ever been admitted, took place at tea half an hour after, when Mrs. Grills, who always voyaged with her husband, brought in the flapjacks from the kitchen. "Miss Jones," said Grills, as I came into the meal, leaving Zekiel at the tiller,--"Miss Jones, this is a young man who is going to Albany. I don't rightly know how to call your name, sir." I said my name was Carter. Then he said, "Mr. Carter, this is Miss Jones. Mrs. Grills, Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter, Mrs. Grills. She is my wife." And so our _partie carrée_ was established for the voyage. In these days there are few people who know that a journey on a canal is the pleasantest journey in the world. A canal has to go through fine scenery. It cannot exist unless it follow through the valley of a stream. The movement is so easy that, with your eyes shut, you do not know you move. The route is so direct, that when you are once shielded from the sun, you are safe for hours. You draw, you read, you write, or you sew, crochet, or knit. You play on your flute or your guitar, without one hint of inconvenience. At a "low bridge" you duck your head lest you lose your hat,--and that reminder teaches you that you are human. You are glad to know this, and you laugh at the memento. For the rest of the time you journey, if you are "all right" within, in elysium. I rode one of those horses perhaps two or three hours a day. At locks I made myself generally useful. At night I walked the deck till one o'clock, with my pipe or without it, to keep guard against the lock-thieves. The skipper asked me sometimes, after he found I could "cipher," to disentangle some of the knots in his bills of lading for him. But all this made but a little inroad in those lovely autumn days, and for the eight days that we glided along,--there is one blessed level which is seventy miles long,--I spent most of my time with Fausta. We walked together on the tow-path to get our appetites for dinner and for supper. At sunrise I always made a cruise inland, and collected the gentians and black alder-berries and colored leaves, with which she dressed Mrs. Grill's table. She took an interest in my wretched sketch-book, and though she did not and does not draw well, she did show me how to spread an even tint, which I never knew before. I was working up my French. She knew about as much and as little as I did, and we read Mad. Reybaud's Clementine together, guessing at the hard words, because we had no dictionary. Dear old Grill offered to talk French at table, and we tried it for a few days. But it proved he picked up his pronunciation at St. Catherine's, among the boatmen there, and he would say _shwo_ for "horses," where the book said _chevaux_. Our talk, on the other hand, was not Parisian,--but it was not Catherinian,--and we subsided into English again. So sped along these blessed eight days. I told Fausta thus much of my story, that I was going to seek my fortune in New York. She, of course, knew nothing of me but what she saw, and she told me nothing of her story. But I was very sorry when we came into the basin at Troy, for I knew then that in all reason I must take the steamboat down. And I was very glad,--I have seldom in my life been so glad,--when I found that she also was going to New York immediately. She accepted, very pleasantly, my offer to carry her trunk to the Isaac Newton for her, and to act as her escort to the city. For me, my trunk, "in danger tried," Swung in my hand,--"nor left my side." My earthly possessions were few anywhere. I had left at Attica most of what they were. Through the voyage I had been man enough to keep on a working-gear fit for a workman's duty. And old Grills had not yet grace enough to keep his boat still on Sunday. How one remembers little things! I can remember each touch of the toilet, as, in that corner of a dark cuddy where I had shared "Zekiel's" bunk with him. I dressed myself with one of my two white shirts, and with the change of raiment which had been tight squeezed in my portmanteau. The old overcoat was the best part of it, as in a finite world it often is. I sold my felt hat to Zekiel, and appeared with a light travelling-cap. I do not know how Fausta liked my metamorphosis. I only know that, like butterflies, for a day or two after they go through theirs, I felt decidedly cold. As Carter, the canal man, I had carried Fausta's trunk on board. As Mr. Carter, I gave her my arm, led her to the gangway of the Newton, took her passage and mine, and afterwards walked and sat through the splendid moonlight of the first four hours down the river. Miss Jones determined that evening to breakfast on the boat. Be it observed that I did not then know her by any other name. She was to go to an aunt's house, and she knew that if she left the boat on its early arrival in New York, she would disturb that lady by a premature ringing at her bell. I had no reason for haste, as the reader knows. The distribution of the cyclopædias was not to take place till the next day, and that absurd trifle was the only distinct excuse I had to myself for being in New York at all. I asked Miss Jones, therefore, if I might not be her escort still to her aunt's house. I had said it would be hard to break off our pleasant journey before I had seen where she lived, and I thought she seemed relieved to know that she should not be wholly a stranger on her arrival. It was clear enough that her aunt would send no one to meet her. These preliminaries adjusted, we parted to our respective cabins. And when, the next morning, at that unearthly hour demanded by Philadelphia trains and other exigencies, the Newton made her dock, I rejoiced that breakfast was not till seven o'clock, that I had two hours more of the berth, which was luxury compared to Zekiel's bunk,--I turned upon my other side and slept on. Sorry enough for that morning nap was I for the next thirty-six hours. For when I went on deck, and sent in the stewardess to tell Miss Jones that I was waiting for her, and then took from her the check for her trunk, I woke to the misery of finding that, in that treacherous two hours, some pirate from the pier had stepped on board, had seized the waiting trunk, left almost alone, while the baggage-master's back was turned, and that, to a certainty, it was lost. I did not return to Fausta with this story till the breakfast-bell had long passed and the breakfast was very cold. I did not then tell it to her till I had seen her eat her breakfast with an appetite much better than mine. I had already offered up stairs the largest reward to anybody who would bring it back which my scanty purse would pay. I had spoken to the clerk, who had sent for a policeman. I could do nothing more, and I did not choose to ruin her chop and coffee by ill-timed news. The officer came before breakfast was over, and called me from table. On the whole, his business-like way encouraged one. He had some clews which I had not thought possible. It was not unlikely that they should pounce on the trunk before it was broken open. I gave him a written description of its marks; and when he civilly asked if "my lady" would give some description of any books or other articles within, I readily promised that I would call with such a description at the police station. Somewhat encouraged, I returned to Miss Jones, and, when I led her from the breakfast-table, told her of her misfortune. I took all shame to myself for my own carelessness, to which I attributed the loss. But I told her all that the officer had said to me, and that I hoped to bring her the trunk at her aunt's before the day was over. Fausta took my news, however, with a start which frightened me. All her money, but a shilling or two, was in the trunk. To place money in trunks is a weakness of the female mind which I have nowhere seen accounted for. Worse than this, though,--as appeared after a moment's examination of her travelling _sac_,--her portfolio in the trunk contained the letter of the aunt whom she came to visit, giving her her address in the city. To this address she had no other clew but that her aunt was Mrs. Mary Mason, had married a few years before a merchant named Mason, whom Miss Jones had never seen, and of whose name and business this was all she knew. They lived in a numbered street, but whether it was Fourth Street, or Fifty-fourth, or One Hundred and Twenty-fourth, or whether it was something between, the poor child had no idea. She had put up the letter carefully, but had never thought of the importance of the address. Besides this aunt, she knew no human being in New York. "Child of the Public," I said to myself, "what do you do now?" I had appealed to my great patron in sending for the officer, and on the whole I felt that my sovereign had been gracious to me, if not yet hopeful. But now I must rub my lamp again, and ask the genie where the unknown Mason lived. The genie of course suggested the Directory, and I ran for it to the clerk's office. But as we were toiling down the pages of "Masons," and had written off thirteen or fourteen who lived in numbered streets, Fausta started, looked back at the preface and its date, flung down her pencil in the only abandonment of dismay in which I ever saw her, and cried, "First of May! They were abroad until May. They have been abroad since the day they were married!" So that genie had to put his glories into his pocket, and carry his Directory back to the office again. The natural thing to propose was, that I should find for Miss Jones a respectable boarding-house, and that she should remain there until her trunk was found, or till she could write to friends who had this fatal address, and receive an answer. But here she hesitated. She hardly liked to explain why,--did not explain wholly. But she did not say that she had no friends who knew this address. She had but few relations in the world, and her aunt had communicated with her alone since she came from Europe. As for the boarding-house, "I had rather look for work," she said bravely. "I have never promised to pay money when I did not know how to obtain it; and that"--and here she took out fifty or sixty cents from her purse--"and that is all now. In respectable boarding-houses, when people come without luggage, they are apt to ask for an advance. Or, at least," she added with some pride, "I am apt to offer it." I hastened to ask her to take all my little store; but I had to own that I had not two dollars. I was sure, however, that my overcoat and the dress-suit I wore would avail me something, if I thrust them boldly up some spout. I was sure that I should be at work within a day or two. At all events, I was certain of the cyclopædia the next day. That should go to old Gowan's,--in Fulton Street it was then,--"the moral centre of the intellectual world," in the hour I got it. And at this moment, for the first time, the thought crossed me, "If mine could only be the name drawn, so that that foolish $5,000 should fall to me." In that case I felt that Fausta might live in "a respectable boarding-house" till she died. Of this, of course, I said nothing, only that she was welcome to my poor dollar and a half, and that I should receive the next day some more money that was due me. "You forget, Mr. Carter," replied Fausta, as proudly as before,--"you forget that I cannot borrow of you any more than of a boarding-house-keeper. I never borrow. Please God, I never will. It must be," she added, "that in a Christian city like this there is some respectable and fit arrangement made for travellers who find themselves where I am. What that provision is I do not know; but I will find out what it is before this sun goes down." I paused a moment before I replied. If I had been fascinated by this lovely girl before, I now bowed in respect before her dignity and resolution; and, with my sympathy, there was a delicious throb of self-respect united, when I heard her lay down so simply, as principles of her life, two principles on which I had always myself tried to live. The half-expressed habits of my boyhood and youth were now uttered for me as axioms by lips which I knew could speak nothing but right and truth. I paused a moment. I stumbled a little as I expressed my regret that she would not let me help her,--joined with my certainty that she was in the right in refusing,--and then it the only stiff speech I ever made to her, I said:-- "I am the 'Child of the Public.' If you ever hear my story, you will say so too. At the least, I can claim this, that I have a right to help you in your quest as to the way in which the public will help you. Thus far I am clearly the officer in his suite to whom he has intrusted you. Are you ready, then, to go on shore?" Fausta looked around on that forlorn ladies' saloon, as if it were the last link holding her to her old safe world. "Looked upon skylight, lamp, and chain, As what she ne'er might see again." Then she looked right through me; and if there had been one mean thought in me at that minute, she would have seen the viper. Then she said, sadly,-- "I have perfect confidence in you, though people would say we were strangers. Let us go." And we left the boat together. We declined the invitations of the noisy hackmen, and walked slowly to Broadway. We stopped at the station-house for that district, and to the attentive chief Fausta herself described those contents of her trunk which she thought would be most easily detected, if offered for sale. Her mother's Bible, at which the chief shook his head; Bibles, alas! brought nothing at the shops; a soldier's medal, such as were given as target prizes by the Montgomery regiment; and a little silver canteen, marked with the device of the same regiment, seemed to him better worthy of note. Her portfolio was wrought with a cipher, and she explained to him that she was most eager that this should be recovered. The pocketbook contained more than one hundred dollars, which she described, but he shook his head here, and gave her but little hope of that, if the trunk were once opened. His chief hope was for this morning. "And where shall we send to you then, madam?" said he. I had been proud, as if it were my merit, of the impression Fausta had made upon the officer, in her quiet, simple, ladylike dress and manner. For myself, I thought that one slip of pretence in my dress or bearing, a scrap of gold or of pinchbeck, would have ruined both of us in our appeal. But, fortunately, I did not disgrace her, and the man looked at her as if he expected her to say "Fourteenth Street." What would she say? "That depends upon what the time will be. Mr. Carter will call at noon, and will let you know." We bowed, and were gone. In an instant more she begged my pardon, almost with tears; but I told her that if she also had been a "Child of the Public," she could not more fitly have spoken to one of her father's officers. I begged her to use me as her protector, and not to apologize again. Then we laid out the plans which we followed out that day. The officer's manner had reassured her, and I succeeded in persuading her that it was certain we should have the trunk at noon. How much better to wait, at least so far, before she entered on any of the enterprises of which she talked so coolly, as of offering herself as a nursery-girl, or as a milliner, to whoever would employ her, if only she could thus secure an honest home till money or till aunt were found. Once persuaded that we were safe from this Quixotism, I told her that we must go on, as we did on the canal, and first we must take our constitutional walk for two hours. "At least," she said, "our good papa, the Public, gives us wonderful sights to see, and good walking to our feet, as a better Father has given us this heavenly sky and this bracing air." And with those words the last heaviness of despondency left her face for that day. And we plunged into the delicious adventure of exploring a new city, staring into windows as only strangers can, revelling in print-shops as only they do, really seeing the fine buildings as residents always forget to do, and laying up, in short, with those streets, nearly all the associations which to this day we have with them. Two hours of this tired us with walking, of course. I do not know what she meant to do next; but at ten I said, "Time for French, Miss Jones." "_Ah oui_" said she, "_mais où_?" and I had calculated my distances, and led her at once into Lafayette Place; and, in a moment, pushed open the door of the Astor Library, led her up the main stairway, and said, "This is what the Public provides for his children when they have to study." "This is the Astor," said she, delighted. "And we are all right, as you say, here?" Then she saw that our entrance excited no surprise among the few readers, men and women, who were beginning to assemble. We took our seats at an unoccupied table, and began to revel in the luxuries for which we had only to ask that we might enjoy. I had a little memorandum of books which I had been waiting to see. She needed none; but looked for one and another, and yet another, and between us we kept the attendant well in motion. A pleasant thing to me to be finding out her thoroughbred tastes and lines of work, and I was happy enough to interest her in some of my pet readings; and, of course, for she was a woman, to get quick hints which had never dawned on me before. A very short hour and a half we spent there before I went to the station-house again. I went very quickly. I returned to her very slowly. The trunk was not found. But they were now quite sure they were on its track. They felt certain it had been carried from pier to pier and taken back up the river. Nor was it hopeless to follow it. The particular rascal who was supposed to have it would certainly stop either at Piermont or at Newburg. They had telegraphed to both places, and were in time for both. "The day boat, sir, will bring your lady's trunk, and will bring me Rowdy Rob, too, I hope," said the officer. But at the same moment, as he rang his bell, he learned that no despatch had yet been received from either of the places named. I did not feel so certain as he did. But Fausta showed no discomfort as I told my news. "Thus far," said she, "the Public serves me well. I will borrow no trouble by want of faith." And I--as Dante would say--and I, to her, "will you let me remind you, then, that at one we dine, that Mrs. Grills is now placing the salt-pork upon the cabin table, and Mr. Grills asking the blessing; and, as this is the only day when I can have the honor of your company, will you let me show you how a Child of the Public dines, when his finances are low?" Fausta laughed, and said again, less tragically than before, "I have perfect confidence in you,"--little thinking how she started my blood with the words; but this time, as if in token, she let me take her hand upon my arm, as we walked down the street together. If we had been snobs, or even if I had been one, I should have taken her to Taylor's, and have spent all the money I had on such a luncheon as neither of us had ever eaten before. Whatever else I am, I am not a snob of that sort. I show my colors. I led her into a little cross-street which I had noticed in our erratic morning pilgrimage. We stopped at a German baker's. I bade her sit down at the neat marble table, and I bought two rolls. She declined lager, which I offered her in fun. We took water instead, and we had dined, and had paid two cents for our meal, and had had a very merry dinner, too, when the clock struck two. "And now, Mr. Carter," said she, "I will steal no more of your day. You did not come to New York to escort lone damsels to the Astor Library or to dinner. Nor did I come only to see the lions or to read French. I insist on your going to your affairs, and leaving me to mine. If you will meet me at the Library half an hour before it closes, I will thank you; till then," with a tragedy shake of the hand, and a merry laugh, "adieu!" I knew very well that no harm could happen to her in two hours of an autumn afternoon. I was not sorry for her _congé_, for it gave me an opportunity to follow my own plans. I stopped at one or two cabinet-makers, and talked with the "jours" about work, that I might tell her with truth that I had been in search of it;--then I sedulously began on calling upon every man I could reach named Mason. O, how often I went through one phase or another of this colloquy:-- "Is Mr. Mason in?" "That's my name, sir." "Can you give me the address of Mr. Mason who returned from Europe last May?" "Know no such person, sir." The reader can imagine how many forms this dialogue could be repeated in, before, as I wrought my way through a long line of dry-goods cases to a distant counting-room, I heard some one in it say, "No, madam, I know no such person as you describe"; and from the recess Fausta emerged and met me. Her plan for the afternoon had been the same with mine. We laughed as we detected each other; then I told her she had had quite enough of this, that it was time she should rest, and took her, _nolens volens_, into the ladies' parlor of the St. Nicholas, and bade her wait there through the twilight, with my copy of Clementine, till I should return from the police-station. If the reader has ever waited in such a place for some one to come and attend to him, he will understand that nobody will be apt to molest him when he has not asked for attention. Two hours I left Fausta in the rocking-chair, which there the Public had provided for her. Then I returned, sadly enough. No tidings of Rowdy Rob, none of trunk, Bible, money, letter, medal, or anything. Still was my district sergeant hopeful, and, as always, respectful. But I was hopeless this time, and I knew that the next day Fausta would be plunging into the war with intelligence-houses and advertisements. For the night, I was determined that she should spend it in my ideal "respectable boarding-house." On my way down town, I stopped in at one or two shops to make inquiries, and satisfied myself where I would take her. Still I thought it wisest that we should go after tea; and another cross-street baker, and another pair of rolls, and another tap at the Croton, provided that repast for us. Then I told Fausta of the respectable boarding-house, and that she must go there. She did not say no. But she did say she would rather not spend the evening there. "There must be some place open for us," said she. "There! there is a church-bell! The church is always home. Let us come there." So to "evening meeting" we went, startling the sexton by arriving an hour early. If there were any who wondered what was the use of that Wednesday-evening service, we did not. In a dark gallery pew we sat, she at one end, I at the other; and, if the whole truth be told, each of us fell asleep at once, and slept till the heavy organ tones taught us that the service had begun. A hundred or more people had straggled in then, and the preacher, good soul, he took for his text, "Doth not God care for the ravens?" I cannot describe the ineffable feeling of home that came over me in that dark pew of that old church. I had never been in so large a church before. I had never heard so heavy an organ before. Perhaps I had heard better preaching, but never any that came to my occasions more. But it was none of these things which moved me. It was the fact that we were just where we had a right to be. No impudent waiter could ask us why we were sitting there, nor any petulant policeman propose that we should push on. It was God's house, and, because his, it was his children's. All this feeling of repose grew upon me, and, as it proved, upon Fausta also. For when the service was ended, and I ventured to ask her whether she also had this sense of home and rest, she assented so eagerly, that I proposed, though with hesitation, a notion which had crossed me, that I should leave her there. "I cannot think," I said, "of any possible harm that could come to you before morning." "Do you know, I had thought of that very same thing, but I did not dare tell you," she said. Was not I glad that she had considered me her keeper! But I only said, "At the 'respectable boarding-house' you might be annoyed by questions." "And no one will speak to me here. I know that from Goody Two-Shoes." "I will be here," said I, "at sunrise in the morning." And so I bade her good by, insisting on leaving in the pew my own great-coat. I knew she might need it before morning. I walked out as the sexton closed the door below on the last of the down-stairs worshippers. He passed along the aisles below, with his long poker which screwed down the gas. I saw at once that he had no intent of exploring the galleries. But I loitered outside till I saw him lock the doors and depart; and then, happy in the thought that Miss Jones was in the safest place in New York,--as comfortable as she was the night before, and much more comfortable than she had been any night upon the canal, I went in search of my own lodging. "To the respectable boarding-house?" Not a bit, reader. I had no shillings for respectable or disrespectable boarding-houses. I asked the first policeman where his district station was. I went into its office, and told the captain that I was green in the city; had got no work and no money. In truth, I had left my purse in Miss Jones's charge, and a five-cent piece, which I showed the chief, was all I had. He said no word but to bid me go up two flights and turn into the first bunk I found. I did so; and in five minutes was asleep in a better bed than I had slept in for nine days. That was what the Public did for me that night. I, too, was safe! I am making this story too long. But with that night and its anxieties the end has come. At sunrise I rose and made my easy toilet. I bought and ate my roll,--varying the brand from yesterday's. I bought another, with a lump of butter, and an orange, for Fausta. I left my portmanteau at the station, while I rushed to the sexton's house, told his wife I had left my gloves in church the night before,--as was the truth,--and easily obtained from her the keys. In a moment I was in the vestibule--locked in--was in the gallery, and there found Fausta, just awake, as she declared, from a comfortable night, reading her morning lesson in the Bible, and sure, she said, that I should soon appear. Nor ghost, nor wraith, had visited her. I spread for her a brown paper tablecloth on the table in the vestibule. I laid out her breakfast for her, called her, and wondered at her toilet. How is it that women always make themselves appear as neat and finished as if there were no conflict, dust, or wrinkle in the world. [Here Fausta adds, in this manuscript, a parenthesis, to say that she folded her undersleeves neatly, and her collar, before she slept, and put them between the cushions, upon which she slept. In the morning they had been pressed--without a sad-iron.] She finished her repast. I opened the church door for five minutes. She passed out when she had enough examined the monuments, and at a respectable distance I followed her. We joined each other, and took our accustomed morning walk; but then she resolutely said, "Good by," for the day. She would find work before night,--work and a home. And I must do the same. Only when I pressed her to let me know of her success, she said she would meet me at the Astor Library just before it closed. No, she would not take my money. Enough, that for twenty-four hours she had been my guest. When she had found her aunt and told her the story, they should insist on repaying this hospitality. Hospitality, dear reader, which I had dispensed at the charge of six cents. Have you ever treated Miranda for a day and found the charge so low? When I urged other assistance she said resolutely, "No." In fact, she had already made an appointment at two, she said, and she must not waste the day. I also had an appointment at two; for it was at that hour that Burrham was to distribute the cyclopædias at Castle Garden. The Emigrant Commission had not yet seized it for their own. I spent the morning in asking vainly for Masons fresh from Europe, and for work in cabinet-shops. I found neither, and so wrought my way to the appointed place, where, instead of such wretched birds in the bush, I was to get one so contemptible in my hand. Those who remember Jenny Lind's first triumph night at Castle Garden have some idea of the crowd as it filled gallery and floor of that immense hall when I entered. I had given no thought to the machinery of this folly, I only know that my ticket bade me be there at two P.M. this day. But as I drew near, the throng, the bands of policemen, the long queues of persons entering, reminded me that here was an affair of ten thousand persons, and also that Mr. Burrham was not unwilling to make it as showy, perhaps as noisy, an affair as was respectable, by way of advertising future excursions and distributions. I was led to seat No. 3,671 with a good deal of parade, and when I came there I found I was very much of a prisoner. I was late, or rather on the stroke of two. Immediately, almost, Mr. Burrham arose in the front and made a long speech about his liberality, and the public's liberality, and everybody's liberality in general, and the method of the distribution in particular. The mayor and four or five other well-known and respectable gentlemen were kind enough to be present to guarantee the fairness of the arrangements. At the suggestion of the mayor and the police, the doors would now be closed, that no persons might interrupt the ceremony till it was ended. And the distribution of the cyclopædias would at once go forward, in the order in which the lots were drawn,--earliest numbers securing the earliest impressions; which, as Mr. Burrham almost regretted to say, were a little better than the latest. After these had been distributed two figures would be drawn,--one green and one red, to indicate the fortunate lady and gentleman who would receive respectively the profits which had arisen from this method of selling the cyclopædias, after the expenses of printing and distribution had been covered, and after the magazines had been ordered. Great cheering followed this announcement from all but me. Here I had shut myself up in this humbug hall, for Heaven knew how long, on the most important day of my life. I would have given up willingly my cyclopædia and my chance at the "profits," for the certainty of seeing Fausta at five o'clock. If I did not see her then, what might befall her, and when might I see her again. An hour before this certainty was my own, now it was only mine by my liberating myself from this prison. Still I was encouraged by seeing that everything was conducted like clock-work. From literally a hundred stations they were distributing the books. We formed ourselves into queues as we pleased, drew our numbers, and then presented ourselves at the bureaux, ordered our magazines, and took our cyclopædias. It would be done, at that rate, by half past four. An omnibus might bring me to the Park, and a Bowery car do the rest in time. After a vain discussion for the right of exit with one or two of the attendants, I abandoned myself to this hope, and began studying my cyclopædia. It was sufficiently amusing to see ten thousand people resign themselves to the same task, and affect to be unconcerned about the green and red figures which were to divide the "profits." I tried to make out who were as anxious to get out of that tawdry den as I was. Four o'clock struck, and the distribution was not done. I began to be very impatient. What if Fausta fell into trouble? I knew, or hoped I knew, that she would struggle to the Astor Library, as to her only place of rescue and refuge,--her asylum. What if I failed her there? I who had pretended to be her protector! "Protector, indeed!" she would say, if she knew I was at a theatre witnessing the greatest folly of the age. And if I did not meet her to-day, when should I meet her? If she found her aunt, how should I find her? If she did not find her,--good God? that was worse,--where might she not be before twelve hours were over? Then the fatal trunk! I had told the police agent he might send it to the St. Nicholas, because I had to give him some address. But Fausta did not know this, and the St. Nicholas people knew nothing of us. I grew more and more excited, and when at last my next neighbor told me that it was half past four, I rose and insisted on leaving my seat. Two ushers with blue sashes almost held me down; they showed me the whole assembly sinking into quiet. In fact, at that moment Mr. Burrham was begging every one to be seated. I would not be seated. I would go to the door. I would go out. "Go, if you please!" said the usher next it, contemptuously. And I looked, and there was no handle! Yet this was not a dream. It is the way they arrange the doors in halls where they choose to keep people in their places. I could have collared that grinning blue sash. I did tell him I would wring his precious neck for him, if he did not let me out. I said I would sue him for false imprisonment; I would have a writ of _habeas corpus_. "_Habeas corpus_ be d----d!" said the officer, with an irreverent disrespect to the palladium. "If you are not more civil, sir, I will call the police, of whom we have plenty. You say you want to go out; you are keeping everybody in." And, in fact, at that moment the clear voice of the mayor was announcing that they would not go on until there was perfect quiet; and I felt that I was imprisoning all these people, not they me. "Child of the Public," said my mourning genius, "are you better than other men?" So I sneaked back to seat No. 3,671, amid the contemptuous and reproachful looks and sneers of my more respectable neighbors, who had sat where they were told to do. We must be through in a moment, and perhaps Fausta would be late also. If only the Astor would keep open after sunset! How often have I wished that since, and for less reasons! Silence thus restored, Mr. A----, the mayor, led forward his little daughter, blindfolded her, and bade her put her hand into a green box, from which she drew out a green ticket. He took it from her, and read, in his clear voice again, "No. 2,973!" By this time we all knew where the "two thousands" sat. Then "nine hundreds" were not far from the front, so that it was not far that that frightened girl, dressed all in black, and heavily veiled, had to walk, who answered to this call. Mr. A---- met her, helped her up the stair upon the stage, took from her her ticket, and read, "Jerusha Stillingfleet, of Yellow Springs, who, at her death, as it seems, transferred this right to the bearer." The disappointed nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine joined in a rapturous cheer, each man and woman, to show that he or she was not disappointed. The bearer spoke with Mr. Burrham, in answer to his questions, and, with a good deal of ostentation, he opened a check-book, filled a check and passed it to her, she signing a receipt as she took it, and transferring to him her ticket. So far, in dumb show, all was well. What was more to my purpose, it was rapid, for we should have been done in five minutes more, but that some devil tempted some loafer in a gallery to cry, "Face! face!" Miss Stillingfleet's legatee was still heavily veiled. In one horrid minute that whole amphitheatre, which seemed to me then more cruel than the Coliseum ever was, rang out with a cry of "Face, face!" I tried the counter-cry of "Shame! shame!" but I was in disgrace among my neighbors, and a counter-cry never takes as its prototype does, either. At first, on the stage, they affected not to hear or understand; then there was a courtly whisper between Mr. Burrham and the lady; but Mr. A----, the mayor, and the respectable gentlemen, instantly interfered. It was evident that she would not unveil, and that they were prepared to indorse her refusal. In a moment more she courtesied to the assembly; the mayor gave her his arm, and led her out through a side-door. O, the yell that rose up then! The whole assembly stood up, and, as if they had lost some vested right, hooted and shrieked, "Back! back! Face! face!" Mr. A---- returned, made as if he would speak, came forward to the very front, and got a moment's silence. "It is not in the bond, gentlemen," said he. "The young lady is unwilling to unveil, and we must not compel her." "Face! face!" was the only answer, and oranges from up stairs flew about his head and struck upon the table,--an omen only fearful from what it prophesied. Then there was such a row for five minutes as I hope I may never see or hear again. People kept their places fortunately, under a vague impression that they should forfeit some magic rights if they left those numbered seats. But when, for a moment, a file of policemen appeared in the orchestra, a whole volley of cyclopædias fell like rain upon their chief, with a renewed cry of "Face! face!" At this juncture, with a good deal of knowledge of popular feeling, Mr. A---- led forward his child again. Frightened to death the poor thing was, and crying; he tied his handkerchief round her eyes hastily, and took her to the red box. For a minute the house was hushed. A cry of "Down! down!" and every one took his place as the child gave the red ticket to her father. He read it as before, "No. 3,671!" I heard the words as if he did not speak them. All excited by the delay and the row, by the injustice to the stranger and the personal injustice of everybody to me, I did not know, for a dozen seconds, that every one was looking towards our side of the house, nor was it till my next neighbor with the watch said, "Go, you fool," that I was aware that 3,671 was I! Even then, as I stepped down the passage and up the steps, my only feeling was, that I should get out of this horrid trap, and possibly find Miss Jones lingering near the Astor,--not by any means that I was invited to take a check for $5,000. There was not much cheering. Women never mean to cheer, of course. The men had cheered the green ticket, but they were mad with the red one. I gave up my ticket, signed my receipt, and took my check, shook hands with Mr. A---- and Mr. Burrham, and turned to bow to the mob,--for mob I must call it now. But the cheers died away. A few people tried to go out perhaps, but there was nothing now to retain any in their seats as before, and the generality rose, pressed down the passages, and howled, "Face! face!" I thought for a moment that I ought to say something, but they would not hear me, and, after a moment's pause, my passion to depart overwhelmed me. I muttered some apology to the gentlemen, and left the stage by the stage door. I had forgotten that to Castle Garden there can be no back entrance. I came to door after door, which were all locked. It was growing dark. Evidently the sun was set, and I knew the library door would be shut at sunset. The passages were very obscure. All around me rang this horrid yell of the mob, in which all that I could discern was the cry, "Face, face!" At last, as I groped round, I came to a practicable door. I entered a room where the western sunset glare dazzled me. I was not alone. The veiled lady in black was there. But the instant she saw me she sprang towards me, flung herself into my arms, and cried:-- "Felix, is it you?--you are indeed my protector!" It was Miss Jones! It was Fausta! She was the legatee of Miss Stillingfleet. My first thought was, "O, if that beggarly usher had let me go! Will I ever, ever think I have better rights than the Public again?" I took her in my arms. I carried her to the sofa. I could hardly speak for excitement. Then I did say that I had been wild with terror; that I had feared I had lost her, and lost her forever; that to have lost that interview would have been worse to me than death; for unless she knew that I loved her better than man ever loved woman, I could not face a lonely night, and another lonely day. "My dear, dear child," I said, "you may think me wild; but I must say this,--it has been pent up too long." "Say what you will," she said after a moment, in which still I held her in my arms; she was trembling so that she could not have sat upright alone,--"say what you will, if only you do not tell me to spend another day alone." And I kissed her, and I kissed her, and I kissed her, and I said, "Never, darling, God helping me, till I die!" How long we sat there I do not know. Neither of us spoke again. For one, I looked out on the sunset and the bay. We had but just time to rearrange ourselves in positions more independent, when Mr. A----came in, this time in alarm, to say:-- "Miss Jones, we must get you out of this place, or we must hide you somewhere. I believe, before God, they will storm this passage, and pull the house about our ears." He said this, not conscious as he began that I was there. At that moment, however, I felt as if I could have met a million men. I started forward and passed him, saying, "Let me speak to them." I rushed upon the stage, fairly pushing back two or three bullies who were already upon it. I sprang upon the table, kicking down the red box as I did so, so that the red tickets fell on the floor and on the people below. One stuck in an old man's spectacles in a way which made the people in the galleries laugh. A laugh is a great blessing at such a moment. Curiosity is another. Three loud words spoken like thunder do a good deal more. And after three words the house was hushed to hear me. I said:-- "Be fair to the girl. She has no father nor mother She has no brother nor sister. She is alone in the world, with nobody to help her but the Public--and me!" The audacity of the speech brought out a cheer and we should have come off in triumph, when some rowdy--the original "face" man, I suppose--said,-- "And who are you?" If the laugh went against me now I was lost, of course. Fortunately I had no time to think. I said without thinking,-- "I am the Child of the Public, and her betrothed husband!" O Heavens! what a yell of laughter, of hurrahings, of satisfaction with a _dénouement_, rang through the house, and showed that all was well. Burrham caught the moment, and started his band, this time successfully,--I believe with "See the Conquering Hero." The doors, of course, had been open long before. Well-disposed people saw they need stay no longer; ill-disposed people dared not stay; the blue-coated men with buttons sauntered on the stage in groups, and I suppose the worst rowdies disappeared as they saw them. I had made my single speech, and for the moment I was a hero. I believe the mayor would have liked to kiss me. Burrham almost did. They overwhelmed me with thanks and congratulations. All these I received as well as I could,--somehow I did not feel at all surprised,--everything was as it should be. I scarcely thought of leaving the stage myself, till, to my surprise, the mayor asked me to go home with him to dinner. Then I remembered that we were not to spend the rest of our lives in Castle Garden. I blundered out something about Miss Jones, that she had no escort except me, and pressed into her room to find her. A group of gentlemen was around her. Her veil was back now. She was very pale, but very lovely. Have I said that she was beautiful as heaven? She was the queen of the room, modestly and pleasantly receiving their felicitations that the danger was over, and owning that she had been very much frightened. "Until," she said, "my friend, Mr. Carter, was fortunate enough to guess that I was here. How he did it," she said, turning to me, "is yet an utter mystery to me." She did not know till then that it was I who had shared with her the profits of the cyclopædias. As soon as we could excuse ourselves, I asked some one to order a carriage. I sent to the ticket-office for my valise, and we rode to the St. Nicholas. I fairly laughed as I gave the hackman at the hotel door what would have been my last dollar and a half only two hours before. I entered Miss Jones's name and my own. The clerk looked, and said, inquiringly,-- "Is it Miss Jones's trunk which came this afternoon?" I followed his finger to see the trunk on the marble floor. Rowdy Rob had deserted it, having seen, perhaps, a detective when he reached Piermont. The trunk had gone to Albany, had found no owner, and had returned by the day boat of that day. Fausta went to her room, and I sent her supper after her. One kiss and "Good night" was all that I got from her then. "In the morning," said she, "you shall explain." It was not yet seven, I went to my own room and dressed, and tendered myself at the mayor's just before his gay party sat down to dine. I met, for the first time in my life, men whose books I had read, and whose speeches I had by heart, and women whom I have since known to honor; and, in the midst of this brilliant group, so excited had Mr. A---- been in telling the strange story of the day, I was, for the hour, the lion. I led Mrs. A---- to the table; I made her laugh very heartily by telling her of the usher's threats to me, and mine to him, and of the disgrace into which I fell among the three thousand six hundreds. I had never been at any such party before. But I found it was only rather simpler and more quiet than most parties I had seen, that its good breeding was exactly that of dear Betsy Myers. As the party broke up, Mrs. A---- said to me,-- "Mr. Carter, I am sure you are tired, with all this excitement. You say you are a stranger here. Let me send round for your trunk to the St. Nicholas, and you shall spend the night here. I know I can make you a better bed than they." I thought as much myself, and assented. In half an hour more I was in bed in Mrs. A----'s "best room." "I shall not sleep better," said I to myself, "than I did last night." That was what the Public did for me that night. I was safe again! CHAPTER LAST. FAUSTA'S STORY. Fausta slept late, poor child. I called for her before breakfast. I waited for her after. About ten she appeared, so radiant, so beautiful, and so kind! The trunk had revealed a dress I never saw before, and the sense of rest, and eternal security, and unbroken love had revealed a charm which was never there to see before. She was dressed for walking, and, as she met me, said,-- "Time for constitutional, Mr. Millionnaire." So we walked again, quite up town, almost to the region of pig-pens and cabbage-gardens which is now the Central Park. And after just the first gush of my enthusiasm, Fausta said, very seriously:-- "I must teach you to be grave. You do not know whom you are asking to be your wife. Excepting Mrs. Mason, No. 27 Thirty-fourth Street, sir, there is no one in the world who is of kin to me, and she does not care for me one straw, Felix," she said, almost sadly now. "You call yourself 'Child of the Public.' I started when you first said so, for that is just what I am. "I am twenty-two years old. My father died before I was born. My mother, a poor woman, disliked by his relatives and avoided by them, went to live in Hoboken over there, with me. How she lived, God knows, but it happened that of a strange death she died, I in her arms." After a pause, the poor girl went on:-- "There was a great military review, an encampment. She was tempted out to see it. Of a sudden by some mistake, a ramrod was fired from a careless soldier's gun, and it pierced her through her heart. I tell you, Felix, it pinned my baby frock into the wound, so that they could not part me from her till it was cut away. "Of course every one was filled with horror. Nobody claimed poor me, the baby. But the battalion, the Montgomery Battalion, it was, which had, by mischance, killed my mother, adopted me as their child. I was voted 'Fille du Regiment.' They paid an assessment annually, which the colonel expended for me. A kind old woman nursed me." "She was your Betsy Myers," interrupted I. "And when I was old enough I was sent into Connecticut, to the best of schools. This lasted till I was sixteen. Fortunately for me, perhaps, the Montgomery Battalion then dissolved. I was finding it hard to answer the colonel's annual letters. I had my living to earn,--it was best I should earn it. I declined a proposal to go out as a missionary. I had no call. I answered one of Miss Beecher's appeals for Western teachers. Most of my life since has been a school-ma'am's. It has had ups and downs. But I have always been proud that the Public was my godfather; and, as you know," she said, "I have trusted the Public well. I have never been lonely, wherever I went. I tried to make myself of use. Where I was of use I found society. The ministers have been kind to me. I always offered my services in the Sunday schools and sewing-rooms. The school committees have been kind to me. They are the Public's high chamberlains for poor girls. I have written for the journals. I won one of Sartain's hundred-dollar prizes--" "And I another," interrupted I. "When I was very poor, I won the first prize for an essay on bad boys." "And I the second," answered I. "I think I know one bad boy better than he knows himself," said she. But she went on. "I watched with this poor Miss Stillingfleet the night she died. This absurd 'distribution' had got hold of her, and she would not be satisfied till she had transferred that strange ticket, No. 2,973, to me, writing the indorsement which you have heard. I had had a longing to visit New York and Hoboken again. This ticket seemed to me to beckon me. I had money enough to come, if I would come cheaply. I wrote to my father's business partner, and enclosed a note to his only sister. She is Mrs. Mason. She asked me, coldly enough, to her house. Old Mr. Grills always liked me,--he offered me escort and passage as far as Troy or Albany. I accepted his proposal, and you know the rest." When I told Fausta my story, she declared I made it up as I went along. When she believed it,--as she does believe it now,--she agreed with me in declaring that it was not fit that two people thus joined should ever be parted. Nor have we been, ever! She made a hurried visit at Mrs. Mason's. She prepared there for her wedding. On the 1st of November we went into that same church which was our first home in New York; and that dear old raven-man made us ONE! THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET. BY J. THOMAS DARKAGH (LATE C.C.S.). [This paper was first published in the "Galaxy," in 1866.] * * * * * I see that an old chum of mine is publishing bits of confidential Confederate History in Harper's Magazine. It would seem to be time, then, for the pivots to be disclosed on which some of the wheelwork of the last six years has been moving. The science of history, as I understand it, depends on the timely disclosure of such pivots, which are apt to be kept out of view while things are moving. I was in the Civil Service at Richmond. Why I was there, or what I did, is nobody's affair. And I do not in this paper propose to tell how it happened that I was in New York in October, 1864, on confidential business. Enough that I was there, and that it was honest business. That business done, as far as it could be with the resources intrusted to me, I prepared to return home. And thereby hangs this tale, and, as it proved, the fate of the Confederacy. For, of course, I wanted to take presents home to my family. Very little question was there what these presents should be,--for I had no boys nor brothers. The women of the Confederacy had one want, which overtopped all others. They could make coffee out of beans; pins they had from Columbus; straw hats they braided quite well with their own fair hands; snuff we could get better than you could in "the old concern." But we had no hoop-skirts,--skeletons, we used to call them. No ingenuity had made them. No bounties had forced them. The Bat, the Greyhound, the Deer, the Flora, the J.C. Cobb, the Varuna, and the Fore-and-Aft all took in cargoes of them for us in England. But the Bat and the Deer and the Flora were seized by the blockaders, the J.C. Cobb sunk at sea, the Fore-and-Aft and the Greyhound were set fire to by their own crews, and the Varuna (our Varuna) was never heard of. Then the State of Arkansas offered sixteen townships of swamp land to the first manufacturer who would exhibit five gross of a home-manufactured article. But no one ever competed. The first attempts, indeed, were put to an end, when Schofield crossed the Blue Lick, and destroyed the dams on Yellow Branch. The consequence was, that people's crinoline collapsed faster than the Confederacy did, of which that brute of a Grierson said there was never anything of it but the outside. Of course, then, I put in the bottom of my new large trunk in New York, not a "duplex elliptic," for none were then made, but a "Belmonte," of thirty springs, for my wife. I bought, for her more common wear, a good "Belle-Fontaine." For Sarah and Susy each, I got two "Dumb-Belles." For Aunt Eunice and Aunt Clara, maiden sisters of my wife, who lived with us after Winchester fell the fourth time, I got the "Scotch Harebell," two of each. For my own mother I got one "Belle of the Prairies" and one "Invisible Combination Gossamer." I did not forget good old Mamma Chloe and Mamma Jane. For them I got substantial cages, without names. With these, tied in the shapes of figure eights in the bottom of my trunk, as I said, I put in an assorted cargo of dry-goods above, and, favored by a pass, and Major Mulford's courtesy on the flag-of-truce boat, I arrived safely at Richmond before the autumn closed. I was received at home with rapture. But when, the next morning, I opened my stores, this became rapture doubly enraptured. Words cannot tell the silent delight with which old and young, black and white, surveyed these fairy-like structures, yet unbroken and unmended. Perennial summer reigned that autumn day in that reunited family. It reigned the next day, and the next. It would have reigned till now if the Belmontes and the other things would last as long as the advertisements declare; and, what is more, the Confederacy would have reigned till now, President Davis and General Lee! but for that great misery, which all families understand, which culminated in our great misfortune. I was up in the cedar closet one day, looking for an old parade cap of mine, which I thought, though it was my third best, might look better than my second best, which I had worn ever since my best was lost at the Seven Pines. I say I was standing on the lower shelf of the cedar closet, when, as I stepped along in the darkness, my right foot caught in a bit of wire, my left did not give way in time, and I fell, with a small wooden hat-box in my hand, full on the floor. The corner of the hat-box struck me just below the second frontal sinus, and I fainted away. When I came to myself I was in the blue chamber; I had vinegar on a brown paper on my forehead; the room was dark, and I found mother sitting by me, glad enough indeed to hear my voice, and to know that I knew her. It was some time before I fully understood what had happened. Then she brought me a cup of tea, and I, quite refreshed, said I must go to the office. "Office, my child!" said she. "Your leg is broken above the ankle; you will not move these six weeks. Where do you suppose you are?" Till then I had no notion that it was five minutes since I went into the closet. When she told me the time, five in the afternoon, I groaned in the lowest depths. For, in my breast pocket in that innocent coat, which I could now see lying on the window-seat, were the duplicate despatches to Mr. Mason, for which, late the night before, I had got the Secretary's signature. They were to go at ten that morning to Wilmington, by the Navy Department's special messenger. I had taken them to insure care and certainty. I had worked on them till midnight, and they had not been signed till near one o'clock. Heavens and earth, and here it was five o'clock! The man must be half-way to Wilmington by this time. I sent the doctor for Lafarge, my clerk. Lafarge did his prettiest in rushing to the telegraph. But no! A freshet on the Chowan River, or a raid by Foster, or something, or nothing, had smashed the telegraph wire for that night. And before that despatch ever reached Wilmington the navy agent was in the offing in the Sea Maid. "But perhaps the duplicate got through?" No, breathless reader, the duplicate did not get through. The duplicate was taken by Faucon, in the Ino. I saw it last week in Dr. Lieber's hands, in Washington. Well, all I know is, that if the duplicate had got through, the Confederate government would have had in March a chance at eighty-three thousand two hundred and eleven muskets, which, as it was, never left Belgium. So much for my treading into that blessed piece of wire on the shelf of the cedar closet, up stairs. "What was the bit of wire?" Well, it was not telegraph wire. If it had been, it would have broken when it was not wanted to. Don't you know what it was? Go up in your own cedar closet, and step about in the dark, and see what brings up round your ankles. Julia, poor child, cried her eyes out about it. When I got well enough to sit up, and as soon as I could talk and plan with her, she brought down seven of these old things, antiquated Belmontes and Simplex Elliptics, and horrors without a name, and she made a pile of them in the bedroom, and asked me in the most penitent way what she should do with them. "You can't burn them" said she; "fire won't touch them. If you bury them in the garden, they come up at the second raking. If you give them to the servants, they say, 'Thank-e, missus,' and throw them in the back passage. If you give them to the poor, they throw them into the street in front, and do not say, 'Thank-e,' Sarah sent seventeen over to the sword factory, and the foreman swore at the boy, and told him he would flog him within an inch of his life if he brought any more of his sauce there; and so--and so," sobbed the poor child, "I just rolled up these wretched things, and laid them in the cedar closet, hoping, you know, that some day the government would want something, and would advertise for them. You know what a good thing; I made out of the bottle corks." In fact, she had sold our bottle corks for four thousand two hundred and sixteen dollars of the first issue. We afterward bought two umbrellas and a corkscrew with the money. Well, I did not scold Julia. It was certainly no fault of hers that I was walking on the lower shelf of her cedar closet. I told her to make a parcel of the things, and the first time we went to drive I hove the whole shapeless heap into the river, without saying mass for them. But let no man think, or no woman, that this was the end of troubles. As I look back on that winter, and on the spring of 1865 (I do not mean the steel spring), it seems to me only the beginning. I got out on crutches at last; I had the office transferred to my house, so that Lafarge and Hepburn could work there nights, and communicate with me when I could not go out; but mornings I hobbled up to the Department, and sat with the Chief, and took his orders. Ah me! shall I soon forget that damp winter morning, when we all had such hope at the office. One or two of the army fellows looked in at the window as they ran by, and we knew that they felt well; and though I would not ask Old Wick, as we had nick-named the Chief, what was in the wind, I knew the time had come, and that the lion meant to break the net this time. I made an excuse to go home earlier than usual; rode down to the house in the Major's ambulance, I remember; and hopped in, to surprise Julia with the good news, only to find that the whole house was in that quiet uproar which shows that something bad has happened of a sudden. "What is it, Chloe?" said I, as the old wench rushed by me with a bucket of water. "Poor Mr. George, I 'fraid he's dead, sah!" And there he really was,--dear handsome, bright George Schaff,--the delight of all the nicest girls of Richmond; he lay there on Aunt Eunice's bed on the ground floor, where they had brought him in. He was not dead,--and he did not die. He is making cotton in Texas now. But he looked mighty near it then. "The deep cut in his head" was the worst I then had ever seen, and the blow confused everything. When McGregor got round, he said it was not hopeless; but we were all turned out of the room, and with one thing and another he got the boy out of the swoon, and somehow it proved his head was not broken. No, but poor George swears to this day it were better it had been, if it could only have been broken the right way and on the right field. For that evening we heard that everything had gone wrong in the surprise. There we had been waiting for one of those early fogs, and at last the fog had come. And Jubal Early had, that morning, pushed out every man he had, that could stand; and they lay hid for three mortal hours, within I don't know how near the picket line at Fort Powhatan, only waiting for the shot which John Streight's party were to fire at Wilson's Wharf, as soon as somebody on our left centre advanced in force on the enemy's line above Turkey Island stretching across to Nansemond. I am not in the War Department, and I forget whether he was to advance _en barbette_ or by _échelon_ of infantry. But he was to advance somehow, and he knew how; and when he advanced, you see, that other man lower down was to rush in, and as soon as Early heard him he was to surprise Powhatan, you see; and then, if you have understood me, Grant and Butler and the whole rig of them would have been cut off from their supplies, would have had to fight a battle for which they were not prepared, with their right made into a new left, and their old left unexpectedly advanced at an oblique angle from their centre, and would not that have been the end of them? Well, that never happened. And the reason it never happened was, that poor George Schaff, with the last fatal order for this man whose name I forget (the same who was afterward killed the day before High Bridge), undertook to save time by cutting across behind my house, from Franklin to Green Streets. You know how much time he saved,--they waited all day for that order. George told me afterwards that the last thing he remembered was kissing his hand to Julia, who sat at her bedroom window. He said he thought she might be the last woman he ever saw this side of heaven. Just after that, it must have been,--his horse--that white Messenger colt old Williams bred--went over like a log, and poor George was pitched fifteen feet head-foremost against a stake there was in that lot. Julia saw the whole. She rushed out with all the women, and had just brought him in when I got home. And that was the reason that the great promised combination of December, 1864, never came off at all. I walked out in the lot, after McGregor turned me out of the chamber, to see what they had done with the horse. There he lay, as dead as old Messenger himself. His neck was broken. And do you think, I looked to see what had tripped him. I supposed it was one of the boys' bandy holes. It was no such thing. The poor wretch had tangled his hind legs in one of those infernal hoop-wires that Chloe had thrown out in the piece when I gave her her new ones. Though I did not know it then, those fatal scraps of rusty steel had broken the neck that day of Robert Lee's army. That time I made a row about it. I felt too badly to go into a passion. But before the women went to bed,--they were all in the sitting-room together,--I talked to them like a father. I did not swear. I had got over that for a while, in that six weeks on my back. But I did say the old wires were infernal things, and that the house and premises must be made rid of them. The aunts laughed,--though I was so serious,--and tipped a wink to the girls. The girls wanted to laugh, but were afraid to. And then it came out that the aunts had sold their old hoops, tied as tight as they could tie them, in a great mass of rags. They had made a fortune by the sale,--I am sorry to say it was in other rags, but the rags they got were new instead of old,--it was a real Aladdin bargain. The new rags had blue backs, and were numbered, some as high as fifty dollars. The rag-man had been in a hurry, and had not known what made the things so heavy. I frowned at the swindle, but they said all was fair with a pedler,--and I own I was glad the things were well out of Richmond. But when I said I thought it was a mean trick, Lizzie and Sarah looked demure, and asked what in the world I would have them do with the old things. Did I expect them to walk down to the bridge themselves with great parcels to throw into the river, as I had done by Julia's? Of course it ended, as such things always do, by my taking the work on my own shoulders. I told them to tie up all they had in as small a parcel as they could, and bring them to me. Accordingly, the next day, I found a handsome brown paper parcel, not so very large, considering, and strangely square, considering, which the minxes had put together and left on my office table. They had a great frolic over it. They had not spared red tape nor red wax. Very official it looked, indeed, and on the left-hand corner, in Sarah's boldest and most contorted hand, was written, "Secret service." We had a great laugh over their success. And, indeed, I should have taken it with me the next time I went down to the Tredegar, but that I happened to dine one evening with young Norton of our gallant little navy, and a very curious thing he told us. We were talking about the disappointment of the combined land attack. I did not tell what upset poor Schaff's horse; indeed, I do not think those navy men knew the details of the disappointment. O'Brien had told me, in confidence, what I have written down probably for the first time now. But we were speaking, in a general way, of the disappointment. Norton finished his cigar rather thoughtfully, and then said: "Well, fellows, it is not worth while to put in the newspapers, but what do you suppose upset our grand naval attack, the day the Yankee gunboats skittled down the river so handsomely?" "Why," said Allen, who is Norton's best-beloved friend, "they say that you ran away from them as fast as they did from you." "Do they?" said Norton, grimly. "If you say that, I'll break your head for you. Seriously, men," continued he, "that was a most extraordinary thing. You know I was on the ram. But why she stopped when she stopped I knew as little as this wineglass does; and Callender himself knew no more than I. We had not been hit. We were all right as a trivet for all we knew, when, skree! she began blowing off steam, and we stopped dead, and began to drift down under those batteries. Callender had to telegraph to the little Mosquito, or whatever Walter called his boat, and the spunky little thing ran down and got us out of the scrape. Walter did it right well; if he had had a monitor under him he could not have done better. Of course we all rushed to the engine-room. What in thunder were they at there? All they knew was they could get no water into her boiler. "Now, fellows, this is the end of the story. As soon as the boilers cooled off they worked all right on those supply pumps. May I be hanged if they had not sucked in, somehow, a long string of yarn, and cloth, and, if you will believe me, a wire of some woman's crinoline. And that French folly of a sham Empress cut short that day the victory of the Confederate navy, and old Davis himself can't tell when we shall have such a chance again!" Some of the men thought Norton lied. But I never was with him when he did not tell the truth. I did not mention, however, what I had thrown into the water the last time I had gone over to Manchester. And I changed my mind about Sarah's "secret-service" parcel. It remained on my table. That was the last dinner our old club had at the Spotswood, I believe. The spring came on, and the plot thickened. We did our work in the office as well as we could; I can speak for mine, and if other people--but no matter for that! The 3d of April came, and the fire, and the right wing of Grant's army. I remember I was glad then that I had moved the office down to the house, for we were out of the way there. Everybody had run away from the Department; and so, when the powers that be took possession, my little sub-bureau was unmolested for some days. I improved those days as well as I could,--burning carefully what was to be burned, and hiding carefully what was to be hidden. One thing that happened then belongs to this story. As I was at work on the private bureau,--it was really a bureau, as it happened, one I had made Aunt Eunice give up when I broke my leg,--I came, to my horror, on a neat parcel of coast-survey maps of Georgia, Alabama, and Florida. They were not the same Maury stole when he left the National Observatory, but they were like them. Now I was perfectly sure that on that fatal Sunday of the flight I had sent Lafarge for these, that the President might use them, if necessary, in his escape. When I found them, I hopped out and called for Julia, and asked her if she did not remember his coming for them. "Certainly," she said, "it was the first I knew of the danger. Lafarge came, asked for the key of the office, told me all was up, walked in, and in a moment was gone." And here, on the file of April 3d, was Lafarge's line to me:-- "I got the secret-service parcel myself, and have put it in the President's own hands. I marked it, 'Gulf coast,' as you bade me." What could Lafarge have given to the President? Not the soundings of Hatteras Bar. Not the working-drawings of the first monitor. I had all these under my hand. Could it be,--"Julia, what did we do with that stuff of Sarah's that she marked _secret service?_" As I live, we had sent the girls' old hoops to the President in his flight. And when the next day we read how he used them, and how Pritchard arrested him, we thought if he had only had the right parcel he would have found the way to Florida. That is really the end of this memoir. But I should not have written it, but for something that happened just now on the piazza. You must know, some of us wrecks are up here at the Berkeley baths. My uncle has a place near here. Here came to-day John Sisson, whom I have not seen since Memminger ran and took the clerks with him. Here we had before, both the Richards brothers, the great paper men, you know, who started the Edgerly Works in Prince George's County, just after the war began. After dinner, Sisson and they met on the piazza. Queerly enough, they had never seen each other before, though they had used reams of Richards's paper in correspondence with each other, and the treasury had used tons of it in the printing of bonds and bank-bills. Of course we all fell to talking of old times,--old they seem now, though it is not a year ago. "Richards," said Sisson at last, "what became of that last order of ours for water-lined, pure linen government-callendered paper of _sureté?_ We never got it, and I never knew why." "Did you think Kilpatrick got it?" said Richards, rather gruffly. "None of your chaff, Richards. Just tell where the paper went, for in the loss of that lot of paper, as it proved, the bottom dropped out of the Treasury tub. On that paper was to have been printed our new issue of ten per cent, convertible, you know, and secured on that up-country cotton, which Kirby Smith had above the Big Raft. I had the printers ready for near a month waiting for that paper. The plates were really very handsome. I'll show you a proof when we go up stairs. Wholly new they were, made by some Frenchmen we got, who had worked for the Bank of France. I was so anxious to have the thing well done, that I waited three weeks for that paper, and, by Jove, I waited just too long. We never got one of the bonds off, and that was why we had no money in March." Richards threw his cigar away. I will not say he swore between his teeth, but he twirled his chair round, brought it down on all fours, both his elbows on his knees and his chin in both hands. "Mr. Sisson," said he, "if the Confederacy had lived, I would have died before I ever told what became of that order of yours. But now I have no secrets, I believe, and I care for nothing. I do not know now how it happened. We knew it was an extra nice job. And we had it on an elegant little new French Fourdrinier, which cost us more than we shall ever pay. The pretty thing ran like oil the day before. That day, I thought all the devils were in it. The more power we put on the more the rollers screamed; and the less we put on, the more sulkily the jade stopped. I tried it myself every way; back current; I tried; forward current; high feed; low freed, I tried it on old stock, I tried it on new; and, Mr. Sisson, I would have made better paper in a coffee-mill! We drained off every drop of water. We washed the tubs free from size. Then my brother, there, worked all night with the machinists, taking down the frame and the rollers. You would not believe it, sir, but that little bit of wire,"--and he took out of his pocket a piece of this hateful steel, which poor I knew so well by this time,--"that little bit of wire had passed in from some hoop-skirt, passed the pickers, passed the screens, through all the troughs, up and down through what we call the lacerators, and had got itself wrought in, where, if you know a Fourdrinier machine, you may have noticed a brass ring riveted to the cross-bar, and there this cursed little knife--for you see it was a knife, by that time--had been cutting to pieces the endless wire web every time the machine was started. You lost your bonds, Mr. Sisson, because some Yankee woman cheated one of my rag-men." On that story I came up stairs. Poor Aunt Eunice! She was the reason I got no salary on the 1st of April. I thought I would warn other women by writing down the story. That fatal present of mine, in those harmless hour-glass parcels, was the ruin of the Confederate navy, army, ordnance, and treasury; and it led to the capture of the poor President too. But, Heaven be praised, no one shall say that my office did not do its duty! CHRISTMAS WAITS IN BOSTON. FROM THE INGHAM PAPERS. [When my friends of the Boston Daily Advertiser asked me last year to contribute to their Christmas number, I was very glad to recall this scrap of Mr. Ingham's memoirs. For in most modern Christmas stories I have observed that the rich wake up of a sudden to befriend the poor, and that the moral is educed from such compassion. The incidents in this story show, what all life shows, that the poor befriend the rich as truly as the rich the poor: that, in the Christian life, each needs all. I have been asked a dozen times how far the story is true. Of course no such series of incidents has ever taken place in this order in four or five hours. But there is nothing told here which has not parallels perfectly fair in my experience or in that of any working minister.] * * * * * I always give myself a Christmas present. And on this particular year the present was a carol party, which is about as good fun, all things consenting kindly, as a man can have. Many things must consent, as will appear. First of all, there must be good sleighing; and second, a fine night for Christmas eve. Ours are not the carollings of your poor shivering little East Angles or South Mercians, where they have to plod round afoot in countries which do not know what a sleigh-ride is. I had asked Harry to have sixteen of the best voices in the chapel school to be trained to five or six good carols, without knowing why. We did not care to disappoint them if a February thaw setting in on the 24th of December should break up the spree before it began. Then I had told Howland that he must reserve for me a span of good horses, and a sleigh that I could pack sixteen small children into, tight-stowed. Howland is always good about such things, knew what the sleigh was for, having done the same in other years, and made the span four horses of his own accord, because the children would like it better, and "it would be no difference to him." Sunday night, as the weather nymphs ordered, the wind hauled round to the northwest and everything froze hard. Monday night, things moderated and the snow began to fall steadily,--so steadily; and so Tuesday night the Metropolitan people gave up their unequal contest, all good men and angels rejoicing at their discomfiture, and only a few of the people in the very lowest _Bolgie_ being ill-natured enough to grieve. And thus it was, that by Thursday evening was one hard compact roadway from Copp's Hill to the Bone-burner's Gehenna, fit for good men and angels to ride over, without jar, without noise, and without fatigue to horse or man. So it was that when I came down with Lycidas to the chapel at seven o'clock, I found Harry had gathered there his eight pretty girls and his eight jolly boys, and had them practising for the last time, "Carol, carol, Christians, Carol joyfully; Carol for the coming Of Christ's nativity." I think the children had got inkling of what was coming, or perhaps Harry had hinted it to their mothers. Certainly they were warmly dressed, and when, fifteen minutes afterwards, Howland came round himself with the sleigh, he had put in as many rugs and bear-skins as if he thought the children were to be taken new-born from their respective cradles. Great was the rejoicing as the bells of the horses rang beneath the chapel windows, and Harry did not get his last _da capo_ for his last carol. Not much matter indeed, for they were perfect enough in it before midnight. Lycidas and I tumbled in on the back seat, each with a child in his lap to keep us warm; I flanked by Sam Perry, and he by John Rich, both of the mercurial age, and therefore good to do errands. Harry was in front somewhere flanked in like wise, and the other children lay in miscellaneously between, like sardines when you have first opened the box I had invited Lycidas, because, besides being my best friend, he is the best fellow in the world, and so deserves the best Christmas eve can give him. Under the full moon, on the still white snow, with sixteen children at the happiest, and with the blessed memories of the best the world has ever had, there can be nothing better than two or three such hours. "First, driver, out on Commonwealth Avenue. That will tone down the horses. Stop on the left after you have passed Fairfield Street." So we dashed up to the front of Haliburton's palace, where he was keeping his first Christmas tide. And the children, whom Harry had hushed down for a square or two, broke forth with good full voice under his strong lead in "Shepherd of tender sheep," singing with all that unconscious pathos with which children do sing, and starting the tears in your eyes in the midst of your gladness. The instant the horses' bells stopped their voices began. In an instant more we saw Haliburton and Anna run to the window and pull up the shades, and in a minute more faces at all the windows. And so the children sung through Clement's old hymn. Little did Clement think of bells and snow, as he taught it in his Sunday school there in Alexandria. But perhaps to-day, as they pin up the laurels and the palm in the chapel at Alexandria, they are humming the words, not thinking of Clement more than he thought of us. As the children closed with "Swell the triumphant song To Christ, our King." Haliburton came running out, and begged me to bring them in. But I told him, "No," as soon as I could hush their shouts of "Merry Christmas"; that we had a long journey before us, and must not alight by the way. And the children broke out with "Hail to the night, Hail to the day," rather a favorite,--quicker and more to the childish taste perhaps than the other,--and with another "Merry Christmas" we were off again. Off, the length of Commonwealth Avenue, to where it crosses the Brookline branch of the Mill-Dam, dashing along with the gayest of the sleighing-parties as we came back into town, up Chestnut Street, through Louisburg Square; ran the sleigh into a bank on the slope of Pinckney Street in front of Walter's house; and, before they suspected there that any one had come, the children were singing "Carol, carol, Christians, Carol joyfully." Kisses flung from the window; kisses flung back from the street. "Merry Christmas" again with a good-will, and then one of the girls began, "When Anna took the baby, And pressed his lips to hers," and all of them fell in so cheerily. O dear me! it is a scrap of old Ephrem the Syrian, if they did but know it! And when, after this, Harry would fain have driven on, because two carols at one house was the rule, how the little witches begged that they might sing just one song more there, because Mrs. Alexander had been so kind to them, when she showed them about the German stitches. And then up the hill and over to the North End, and as far as we could get the horses up into Moon Court, that they might sing to the Italian image-man who gave Lucy the boy and dog in plaster, when she was sick in the spring. For the children had, you know, the choice of where they would go, and they select their best friends, and will be more apt to remember the Italian image-man than Chrysostom himself, though Chrysostom should have "made a few remarks" to them seventeen times in the chapel. Then the Italian image-man heard for the first time in his life "Now is the time of Christmas come," and "Jesus in his babes abiding." And then we came up Hanover Street and stopped under Mr. Gerry's chapel, where they were dressing the walls with their evergreens, and gave them "Hail to the night, Hail to the day," and so down State Street and stopped at the Advertiser office, because, when the boys gave their "Literary Entertainment," Mr. Hale put in their advertisement for nothing, and up in the old attic there the compositors were relieved to hear "Nor war nor battle sound," and "The waiting world was still;" so that even the leading editor relaxed from his gravity, and the "In-General" man from his more serious views, and the Daily the next morning wished everybody a merry Christmas with even more unction, and resolved that in coming years it would have a supplement, large enough to contain all the good wishes. So away again to the houses of confectioners who had given the children candy,--to Miss Simonds's house, because she had been so good to them in school,--to the palaces of millionnaires who had prayed for these children with tears if the children only knew it,--to Dr. Frothingham's in Summer Street, I remember, where we stopped because the Boston Association of Ministers met here,--and out on Dover Street Bridge, that the poor chair-mender might hear our carols sung once more before he heard them better sung in an other world where nothing needs mending. "King of glory, king of peace!" "Hear the song, and see the Star!" "Welcome be thou, heavenly King!" "Was not Christ our Saviour?" and all the others, rung out with order or without order, breaking the hush directly as the horses' bells were stilled, thrown into the air with all the gladness of childhood, selected sometimes as Harry happened to think best for the hearers, but more often as the jubilant and uncontrolled enthusiasm of the children bade them break out in the most joyous, least studied, and purely lyrical of all. O, we went to twenty places that night, I suppose! We went to the grandest places in Boston, and we went to the meanest. Everywhere they wished us a merry Christmas, and we them. Everywhere a little crowd gathered round us, and then we dashed away far enough to gather quite another crowd; and then back, perhaps, not sorry to double on our steps if need were, and leaving every crowd with a happy thought of "The star, the manger, and the Child!" At nine we brought up at my house, D Street, three doors from the corner, and the children picked their very best for Polly and my six little girls to hear, and then for the first time we let them jump out and run in. Polly had some hot oysters for them, so that the frolic was crowned with a treat. There was a Christmas cake cut into sixteen pieces, which they took home to dream upon; and then hoods and muffs on again, and by ten o'clock, or a little after, we had all the girls and all the little ones at their homes. Four of the big boys, our two flankers and Harry's right and left hand men, begged that they might stay till the last moment. They could walk back from the stable, and "rather walk than not, indeed." To which we assented, having gained parental permission, as we left younger sisters in their respective homes. II. Lycidas and I both thought, as we went into these modest houses, to leave the children, to say they had been good and to wish a "Merry Christmas" ourselves to fathers, mothers, and to guardian aunts, that the welcome of those homes was perhaps the best part of it all. Here was the great stout sailor-boy whom we had not seen since he came back from sea. He was a mere child when he left our school years on years ago, for the East, on board Perry's vessel, and had been round the world. Here was brave Mrs. Masury. I had not seen her since her mother died. "Indeed, Mr. Ingham, I got so used to watching then, that I cannot sleep well yet o' nights; I wish you knew some poor creature that wanted me to-night, if it were only in memory of Bethlehem." "You take a deal of trouble for the children," said Campbell, as he crushed my hand in his; "but you know they love you, and you know I would do as much for you and yours,"--which I knew was true. "What can I send to your children?" said Dalton, who was finishing sword-blades. (Ill wind was Fort Sumter, but it blew good to poor Dalton, whom it set up in the world with his sword-factory.) "Here's an old-fashioned tape-measure for the girl, and a Sheffield wimble for the boy. What, there is no boy? Let one of the girls have it then; it will count one more present for her." And so he pressed his brown-paper parcel into my hand. From every house, though it were the humblest, a word of love, as sweet, in truth, as if we could have heard the voice of angels singing in the sky. I bade Harry good night; took Lycidas to his lodgings, and gave his wife my Christmas wishes and good night; and, coming down to the sleigh again, gave way to the feeling which I think you will all understand, that this was not the time to stop, but just the time to begin. For the streets were stiller now, and the moon brighter than ever, if possible, and the blessings of these simple people and of the grand people, and of the very angels in heaven, who are not bound to the misery of using words when they have anything worth saying,--all these wishes and blessings were round me, all the purity of the still winter night, and I didn't want to lose it all by going to bed to sleep. So I put the boys all together, where they could chatter, took one more brisk turn on the two avenues, and then, passing through Charles Street, I believe I was even thinking of Cambridge, I noticed the lights in Woodhull's house, and, seeing they were up, thought I would make Fanny a midnight call. She came to the door herself. I asked if she were waiting for Santa Claus, but saw in a moment that I must not joke with her. She said she had hoped I was her husband. In a minute was one of those contrasts which make life, life. God puts us into the world that we may try them and be tried by them. Poor Fanny's mother had been blocked up on the Springfield train as she was coming on to Christmas. The old lady had been chilled through, and was here in bed now with pneumonia. Both Fanny's children had been ailing when she came, and this morning the doctor had pronounced it scarlet fever. Fanny had not undressed herself since Monday, nor slept, I thought, in the same time. So while we had been singing carols and wishing merry Christmas, the poor child had been waiting, and hoping that her husband or Edward, both of whom were on the tramp, would find for her and bring to her the model nurse, who had not yet appeared. But at midnight this unknown sister had not arrived, nor had either of the men returned. When I rang, Fanny had hoped I was one of them. Professional paragons, dear reader, are shy of scarlet fever. I told the poor child that it was better as it was. I wrote a line for Sam Perry to take to his aunt, Mrs. Masury, in which I simply said: "Dear mamma, I have found the poor creature who wants you to-night. Come back in this carriage." I bade him take a hack at Gates's, where they were all up waiting for the assembly to be done at Papanti's. I sent him over to Albany Street; and really as I sat there trying to soothe Fanny, it seemed to me less time than it has taken to dictate this little story about her, before Mrs. Masury rang gently, and I left them, having made Fanny promise that she would consecrate the day, which at that moment was born, by trusting God, by going to bed and going to sleep, knowing that her children were in much better hands than hers. As I passed out of the hall, the gas-light fell on a print of Correggio's Adoration, where Woodhull had himself written years before, "Ut appareat iis qui in tenebris et umbra mortis positi sunt." "Darkness and the shadow of death" indeed, and what light like the light and comfort such a woman as my Mary Masury brings! And so, but for one of the accidents, as we call them, I should have dropped the boys at the corner of Dover Street, and gone home with my Christmas lesson. But it happened, as we irreverently say,--it happened as we crossed Park Square, so called from its being an irregular pentagon of which one of the sides has been taken away, that I recognized a tall man, plodding across in the snow, head down, round-shouldered, stooping forward in walking, with his right shoulder higher than his left; and by these tokens I knew Tom Coram, prince among Boston princes. Not Thomas Coram that built the Foundling Hospital, though he was of Boston too; but he was longer ago. You must look for him in Addison's contribution to a supplement to the Spectator,--the old Spectator, I mean, not the Thursday Spectator, which is more recent. Not Thomas Coram, I say, but Tom Coram, who would build a hospital to-morrow, if you showed him the need, without waiting to die first, and always helps forward, as a prince should, whatever is princely, be it a statue at home, a school in Richmond, a newspaper in Florida, a church in Exeter, a steam-line to Liverpool, or a widow who wants a hundred dollars. I wished him a merry Christmas, and Mr. Howland, by a fine instinct, drew up the horses as I spoke. Coram shook hands; and, as it seldom happens that I have an empty carriage while he is on foot, I asked him if I might not see him home. He was glad to get in. We wrapped him up with spoils of the bear, the fox, and the bison, turned the horses' heads again,--five hours now since they started on this entangled errand of theirs,--and gave him his ride. "I was thinking of you at the moment," said Coram,--"thinking of old college times, of the mystery of language as unfolded by the Abbé Faria to Edmond Dantes in the depths of the Chateau d'If. I was wondering if you could teach me Japanese, if I asked you to a Christmas dinner." I laughed. Japan was really a novelty then, and I asked him since when he had been in correspondence with the sealed country. It seemed that their house at Shanghae had just sent across there their agents for establishing the first house in Edomo, in Japan, under the new treaty. Everything looked promising, and the beginnings were made for the branch which has since become Dot and Trevilyan there. Of this he had the first tidings in his letters by the mail of that afternoon. John Coram, his brother, had written to him, and had said that he enclosed for his amusement the Japanese bill of particulars, as it had been drawn out, on which they had founded their orders for the first assorted cargo ever to be sent from America to Edomo. Bill of particulars there was, stretching down the long tissue-paper in exquisite chirography. But by some freak of the "total depravity of things," the translated order for the assorted cargo was not there. John Coram, in his care to fold up the Japanese writing nicely, had left on his own desk at Shanghae the more intelligible English. "And so I must wait," said Tom philosophically, "till the next East India mail for my orders, certain that seven English houses have had less enthusiastic and philological correspondents than my brother." I said I did not see that. That I could not teach him to speak the Taghalian dialects so well, that he could read them with facility before Saturday. But I could do a good deal better. Did he remember writing a note to old Jack Percival for me five years ago? No, he remembered no such thing; he knew Jack Percival, but never wrote a note to him in his life. Did he remember giving me fifty dollars, because I had taken a delicate boy, whom I was going to send to sea, and I was not quite satisfied with the government outfit? No, he did not remember that, which was not strange, for that was a thing he was doing every day, "Well, I don't care how much you remember, but the boy about whom you wrote to Jack Percival, for whose mother's ease of mind you provided the half-hundred, is back again,--strong, straight, and well; what is more to the point, he had the whole charge of Perry's commissariat on shore at Yokohama, was honorably discharged out there, reads Japanese better than you read English; and if it will help you at all, he shall be here at your house at breakfast." For as I spoke we stopped at Coram's door. "Ingham," said Coram, "if you were not a parson, I should say you were romancing." "My child," said I, "I sometimes write a parable for the Atlantic; but the words of my lips are verity, as all those of the Sandemanians. Go to bed; do not even dream of the Taghalian dialects; be sure that the Japanese interpreter will breakfast with you, and the next time you are in a scrape send for the nearest minister. George, tell your brother Ezra that Mr. Coram wishes him to breakfast here to-morrow morning at eight o'clock; don't forget the number, Pemberton Square, you know." "Yes, sir," said George; and Thomas Coram laughed, said "Merry Christmas," and we parted. It was time we were all in bed, especially these boys. But glad enough am I as I write these words that the meeting of Coram set us back that dropped-stitch in our night's journey. There was one more delay. We were sweeping by the Old State House, the boys singing again, "Carol, carol, Christians," as we dashed along the still streets, when I caught sight of Adams Todd, and he recognized me. He had heard us singing when we were at the Advertiser office. Todd is an old fellow-apprentice of mine,--and he is now, or rather was that night, chief pressman in the Argus office. I like the Argus people,--it was there that I was South American Editor, now many years ago,--and they befriend me to this hour. Todd hailed me, and once more I stopped. "What sent you out from your warm steam-boiler?" "Steam-boiler, indeed," said Todd. "Two rivets loose,--steam-room full of steam,--police frightened,--neighborhood in a row,--and we had to put out the fire. She would have run a week without hurting a fly,--only a little puff in the street sometimes. But there we are, Ingham. We shall lose the early mail as it stands. Seventy-eight tokens to be worked now." They always talked largely of their edition at the Argus. Saw it with many eyes, perhaps; but this time, I am sure, Todd spoke true. I caught his idea at once. In younger and more muscular times, Todd and I had worked the Adams press by that fly-wheel for full five minutes at a time, as a test of strength; and in my mind's eye, I saw that he was printing his paper at this moment with relays of grinding stevedores. He said it was so. "But think of it to-night," said he. "It is Christmas eve, and not an Irishman to be hired, though one paid him ingots. Not a man can stand the grind ten minutes." I knew that very well from old experience, and I thanked him inwardly for not saying "the demnition grind," with Mantihni. "We cannot run the press half the time," said he; "and the men we have are giving out now. We shall lose all our carrier delivery." "Todd," said I, "is this a night to be talking of ingots, or hiring, or losing, or gaining? When will you learn that Love rules the court, the camp, and the Argus office." And I wrote on the back of a letter to Campbell: "Come to the Argus office, No. 2 Dassett's Alley, with seven men not afraid to work"; and I gave it to John and Sam, bade Howland take the boys to Campbell's house,--walked down with Todd to his office,--challenged him to take five minutes at the wheel, in memory of old times,--made the tired relays laugh as they saw us take hold; and then,--when I had cooled off, and put on my Cardigan,--met Campbell, with his seven sons of Anak, tumbling down the stairs, wondering what round of mercy the parson had found for them this time. I started home, knowing I should now have my Argus with my coffee. III. And so I walked home. Better so, perhaps, after all, than in the lively sleigh, with the tinkling bells. "It was a calm and silent night!-- Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea! No sound was heard of clashing wars,-- Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!" What an eternity it seemed since I started with those children singing carols. Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary, Rome, Roman senators, Tiberius, Paul, Nero, Clement, Ephrem, Ambrose, and all the singers,--Vincent de Paul, and all the loving wonderworkers, Milton and Herbert and all the carol-writers, Luther and Knox and all the prophets,--what a world of people had been keeping Christmas with Sam Perry and Lycidas and Harry and me; and here were Yokohama and the Japanese, the Daily Argus and its ten million tokens and their readers,--poor Fanny Woodhull and her sick mother there, keeping Christmas too! For a finite world, these are a good many "waits" to be singing in one poor fellow's ears on one Christmas-tide. "'Twas in the calm and silent night!-- The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel, roiling home. Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast, with thoughts of boundless sway What recked the _Roman_ what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! "Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable door Across his path. He passed,--for naught Told _what was going on within_; How keen the stars, his only thought, The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!" "Streak of light"--Is there a light in Lycidas's room? They not in bed! That is making a night of it! Well, there are few hours of the day or night when I have not been in Lycidas's room, so I let myself in by the night-key he gave me, ran up the stairs,--it is a horrid seven-storied, first-class lodging-house. For my part, I had as lief live in a steeple. Two flights I ran up, two steps at a time,--I was younger then than I am now,--pushed open the door which was ajar, and saw such a scene of confusion as I never saw in Mary's over-nice parlor before. Queer! I remember the first thing that I saw was wrong was a great ball of white German worsted on the floor. Her basket was upset. A great Christmas-tree lay across the rug, quite too high for the room; a large sharp-pointed Spanish clasp-knife was by it, with which they had been lopping it; there were two immense baskets of white papered presents, both upset; but what frightened me most was the centre-table. Three or four handkerchiefs on it,--towels, napkins, I know not what,--all brown and red and almost black with blood! I turned, heart-sick, to look into the bedroom,--and I really had a sense of relief when I saw somebody. Bad enough it was, however. Lycidas, but just now so strong and well, lay pale and exhausted on the bloody bed, with the clothing removed from his right thigh and leg, while over him bent Mary and Morton. I learned afterwards that poor Lycidas, while trimming the Christmas-tree, and talking merrily with Mary and Morton,--who, by good luck, had brought round his presents late, and was staying to tie on glass balls and apples,--had given himself a deep and dangerous wound with the point of the unlucky knife, and had lost a great deal of blood before the hemorrhage could be controlled. Just before I entered, the stick tourniquet which Morton had improvised had slipped in poor Mary's unpractised hand, at the moment he was about to secure the bleeding artery, and the blood followed in such a gush as compelled him to give his whole attention to stopping its flow. He only knew my entrance by the "Ah, Mr. Ingham," of the frightened Irish girl, who stood useless behind the head of the bed. "O Fred," said Morton, without looking up, "I am glad you are here." "And what can I do for you?" "Some whiskey,--first of all." "There are two bottles," said Mary, who was holding the candle,--"in the cupboard behind his dressing-glass." I took Bridget with me, struck a light in the dressing-room (how she blundered about the match), and found the cupboard door locked! Key doubtless in Mary's pocket,--probably in pocket of "another dress." I did not ask. Took my own bunch, willed tremendously that my account-book drawer key should govern the lock, and it did. If it had not, I should have put my fist through the panels. Bottle of bedbug poison; bottle marked "bay rum"; another bottle with no mark; two bottles of Saratoga water. "Set them all on the floor, Bridget." A tall bottle of Cologne. Bottle marked in MS. What in the world is it? "Bring that candle, Bridget." "Eau destillée. Marron, Montreal." What in the world did Lycidas bring distilled water from Montreal for? And then Morton's clear voice in the other room, "As quick as you can, Fred." "Yes! in one moment. Put all these on the floor, Bridget." Here they are at last. "Bourbon whiskey." "Corkscrew, Bridget." "Indade, sir, and where is it?" "Where? I don't know. Run down as quick as you can, and bring it. His wife cannot leave him." So Bridget ran, and the first I heard was the rattle as she pitched down the last six stairs of the first flight headlong. Let us hope she has not broken her leg. I meanwhile am driving a silver pronged fork into the Bourbon corks, and the blade of my own penknife on the other side. "Now, Fred," from George within. (We all call Morton "George.") "Yes, in one moment," I replied. Penknife blade breaks off, fork pulls right out, two crumbs of cork come with it. Will that girl never come? I turned round; I found a goblet on the wash-stand; I took Lycidas's heavy clothes-brush, and knocked off the neck of the bottle. Did you ever do it, reader, with one of those pressed glass bottles they make now? It smashed like a Prince Rupert's drop in my hand, crumbled into seventy pieces,--a nasty smell of whiskey on the floor,--and I, holding just the hard bottom of the thing with two large spikes running worthless up into the air. But I seized the goblet, poured into it what was left in the bottom, and carried it in to Morton as quietly as I could. He bade me give Lycidas as much as he could swallow; then showed me how to substitute my thumb for his, and compress the great artery. When he was satisfied that he could trust me, he began his work again, silently; just speaking what must be said to that brave Mary, who seemed to have three hands because he needed them. When all was secure, he glanced at the ghastly white face, with beads of perspiration on the forehead and upper lip, laid his finger on the pulse, and said: "We will have a little more whiskey. No, Mary, you are overdone already; let Fred bring it." The truth was that poor Mary was almost as white as Lycidas. She would not faint,--that was the only reason she did not,--and at the moment I wondered that she did not fall. I believe George and I were both expecting it, now the excitement was over. He called her Mary and me Fred, because we were all together every day of our lives. Bridget, you see, was still nowhere. So I retired for my whiskey again,--to attack that other bottle. George whispered quickly as I went, "Bring enough,--bring the bottle." Did he want the bottle corked? Would that Kelt ever come up stairs? I passed the bell-rope as I went into the dressing-room, and rang as hard as I could ring. I took the other bottle, and bit steadily with my teeth at the cork, only, of course, to wrench the end of it off. George called me, and I stepped back. "No," said he, "bring your whiskey." Mary had just rolled gently back on the floor. I went again in despair. But I heard Bridget's step this time. First flight, first passage; second flight, second passage. She ran in in triumph at length, with a _screw-driver!_ "No!" I whispered,--"no. The crooked thing you draw corks with," and I showed her the bottle again. "Find one somewhere and don't come back without it." So she vanished for the second time. "Frederic!" said Morton. I think he never called me so before. Should I risk the clothes-brush again? I opened Lycidas's own drawers,--papers, boxes, everything in order,--not a sign of a tool. "Frederic!" "Yes," I said. But why did I say "Yes"? "Father of Mercy, tell me what to do." And my mazed eyes, dim with tears,--did you ever shed tears from excitement?--fell on an old razor-strop of those days of shaving, made by C. WHITTAKER, SHEFFIELD. The "Sheffield" stood in black letters out from the rest like a vision. They make cork screws in Sheffield too. If this Whittaker had only made a corkscrew! And what is a "Sheffield wimble?" Hand in my pocket,--brown paper parcel. "Where are you, Frederic?" "Yes," said I, for the last time. Twine off! brown paper off. And I learned that the "Sheffield wimble" was one of those things whose name you never heard before, which people sell you in Thames Tunnel, where a hoof-cleaner, a gimlet, a screw-driver, and a _corkscrew_ fold into one handle. "Yes," said I, again. "Pop," said the cork "Bubble, bubble, bubble," said the whiskey. Bottle in one hand, full tumbler in the other, I walked in. George poured half a tumblerful down Lycidas's throat that time. Nor do I dare say how much he poured down afterwards. I found that there was need of it, from what he said of the pulse, when it was all over. I guess Mary had some, too. This was the turning-point. He was exceedingly weak, and we sat by him in turn through the night, giving, at short intervals, stimulants and such food as he could swallow easily; for I remember Morton was very particular not to raise his head more than we could help. But there was no real danger after this. As we turned away from the house on Christmas morning,--I to preach and he to visit his patients,--he said to me, "Did you make that whiskey?" "No," said I, "but poor Dod Dalton had to furnish the corkscrew." And I went down to the chapel to preach. The sermon had been lying ready at home on my desk,--and Polly had brought it round to me,--for there had been no time for me to go from Lycidas's home to D Street and to return. There was the text, all as it was the day before:-- "They helped every one his neighbor, and every one said to his brother, Be of good courage. So the carpenter encouraged the goldsmith, and he that smootheth with the hammer him that smote the anvil." And there were the pat illustrations, as I had finished them yesterday; of the comfort Mary Magdalen gave Joanna, the court lady; and the comfort the court lady gave Mary Magdalen, after the mediator of a new covenant had mediated between them; how Simon the Cyrenian, and Joseph of Arimathea, and the beggar Bartimeus comforted each other, gave each other strength, common force, _com-fort_, when the One Life flowed in all their veins; how on board the ship the Tent-Maker proved to be Captain, and the Centurion learned his duty from his Prisoner, and how they "_All_ came safe to shore," because the New Life was there. But as I preached, I caught Frye's eye. Frye is always critical; and I said to myself, "Frye would not take his illustrations from eighteen hundred years ago." And I saw dear old Dod Dalton trying to keep awake, and Campbell hard asleep after trying, and Jane Masury looking round to see if her mother did not come in; and Ezra Sheppard, looking, not so much at me, as at the window beside me, as if his thoughts were the other side of the world. And I said to them all, "O, if I could tell you, my friends, what every twelve hours of my life tells me,--of the way in which woman helps woman, and man helps man, when only the ice is broken,--how we are all rich so soon as we find out that we are all brothers, and how we are all in want, unless we can call at any moment for a brother's hand,--then I could make you understand something, in the lives you lead every day, of what the New Covenant, the New Commonwealth, the New Kingdom is to be." But I did not dare tell Dod Dalton what Campbell had been doing for Todd, nor did I dare tell Campbell by what unconscious arts old Dod had been helping Lycidas. Perhaps the sermon would have been better had I done so. But, when we had our tree in the evening at home, I did tell all this story to Polly and the bairns, and I gave Alice her measuring-tape,--precious with a spot of Lycidas's blood,--and Bertha her Sheffield wimble. "Papa," said old Clara, who is the next child, "all the people gave presents, did not they, as they did in the picture in your study?" "Yes," said I, "though they did not all know they were giving them." "Why do they not give such presents every day?" said Clara. "O child," I said, "it is only for thirty-six hours of the three hundred and sixty-five days, that all people remember that they are all brothers and sisters, and those are the hours that we call, therefore, Christmas eve and Christmas day." "And when they always remember it," said Bertha, "it will be Christmas all the time! What fun!" "What fun, to be sure; but Clara, what is in the picture?" "Why, an old woman has brought eggs to the baby in the manger, and an old man has brought a sheep. I suppose they all brought what they had." "I suppose those who came from Sharon brought roses," said Bertha. And Alice, who is eleven, and goes to the Lincoln School, and therefore knows everything, said, "Yes, and the Damascus people brought Damascus wimbles." "This is certain," said Polly, "that nobody tried to give a straw, but the straw, if he really gave it, carried a blessing." _EDWARD E. HALE'S WRITINGS._ THE GOOD TIME COMING; or, Our New Crusade. Square 18mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00 "It has all the characteristics of its brilliant author,--unflagging entertainment, helpfulness, suggestive, practical hints, and a contagious vitality that sets one's blood tingling. Whoever has read 'Ten Times One is Ten' will know just what we mean. We predict that the new volume, as being a more charming story, will have quite as great a parish of readers. The gist of the book is to show how possible it is for the best spirits of a community, through wise organization, to form themselves into a lever by means of which the whole tone of the social status may be elevated, and the good and highest happiness of the helpless many be attained through the self-denying exertions of the powerful few."--_Southern Churchman._ THE INGHAM PAPERS, 16mo. $1.25. "But it is not alone for their wit and ingenuity we prize Mr. Hale's stories, but for the serious thought, the moral, or practical suggestion underlying all of them. They are not written simply to amuse, but have a graver purpose. Of the stories in the present volume, the best to our thinking is 'The Rag Man and Rag Woman.'"--_Boston Transcript._ HOW TO DO IT 16mo. $1.00 "Good sense, very practical suggestions, telling illustrations (in words), lively fancy, and delightful humor combine to make Mr. Hale's hints exceedingly taking and stimulating, and we do not see how either sex can fail, after reading his pages, to know How to Talk, How to Write, How to Read, How to go into Society, and How to Travel. These, with Life at School, Life in Vacation, Life Alone, Habits in Church, Life with Children, Life with your Elders, Habits of Reading, and Getting Ready, are the several topics of the more than as many chapters, and make the volume one which should find its way to the hands of every boy and girl. To this end we would like to see it in every Sabbath-school library in the land."--_Congregationalist._ CRUSOE IN NEW YORK, and other Stories, 16mo. $1.00 "If one desires something unique, full of wit, a veiled sarcasm that is rich in the extreme, it will all be found in this charming little book. The air of perfect sincerity with which they are told, the diction, reminding one of 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' and the ludicrous improbability of the tales, give them a power rarely met with in 'short stories.' There is many a lesson to be learned from the quiet little volume." HIS LEVEL BEST. 16mo. $1.25. "We like Mr. Hale's style. He is fresh, frank, pungent, straightforward, and pointed. The first story is the one that gives the book its title, and it is related in a dignified manner, showing peculiar genius and humorous talent. The contents are, 'His Level Best,' 'The Brick Moon,' 'Water Talk,' 'Mouse and Lion,' 'The Modern Sinbad,' 'A Tale of a Salamander,'"--_Philadelphia Exchange._ GONE TO TEXAS; or, The Wonderful Adventures of a Pullman, 16mo. $1.00. "There are few books of travel which combine in a romance of true love so many touches of the real life of many people, in glimpses of happy homes, in pictures of scenery and sunset, as the beautiful panorama unrolled before us from the windows of this Pullman car. The book is crisp and bright, and has a pleasant flavor; and whatever is lovely in the spirit of its author, or of good report in his name, one may look here and find promise of both fulfilled."--_Exchange._ WHAT CAREER? or, The Choice of a Vocation and the Use of Time. 16mo. $1.25. "'What Career?' is a book which will do anybody good to read; especially is it a profitable book for young men to 'read, mark, and inwardly digest.' Mr. Hale seems to know what young men need, and here he gives them the result of his large experience and careful observation. A list of the subjects treated in this little volume will sufficiently indicate its scope: (1) The Leaders Lead; (2) The Specialties; (3) Noblesse Oblige; (4) The Mind's Maximum; (5) A Theological Seminary; (6) Character; (7) Responsibilities of Young Men; (8) Study Outside School; (9) The Training of Men; (10) Exercise."--_Watchman._ UPS AND DOWNS. An Every-Day Novel, 16mo. $1.50. "This book is certainly very enjoyable. It delineates American life so graphically that we feel as if Mr. Hale must have seen every rood of ground he describes, and must have known personally every character he so cleverly depicts. In his hearty fellowship with young people lies his great power. The story is permeated with a spirit of glad-heartedness and elasticity which in this hurried, anxious, money-making age it is most refreshing to meet with in any one out of his teens; and the author's sympathy with, and respect for, the little romances of his young friends is most fraternal."--_New Church Magazine_. * * * * * _Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the Publishers_, ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: After Chapman.] [Footnote B: After Cowper and Pope. Long after!] [Footnote C: Iliad, vi.] [Footnote D: Iliad, vi--POPE.] [Footnote E: Iliad, xii., after Sotheby.] [Footnote F: I do not know that this explanation is at all clear. Let me, as the mathematicians say, give an instance which will illustrate the importance of this profession. It is now a few months since I received the following note from a distinguished member of the Cabinet:-- "WASHINGTON, January ----, 1842. "DEAR SIR:--We are in a little trouble about a little thing. There are now in this city no less than three gentlemen bearing credentials to government as Chargés from the Republic of Oronoco. They are, of course, accredited from three several home governments. The President signified, when the first arrived, that he would receive the Chargé from that government, on the 2d proximo, but none of us know who the right Chargé is. The newspapers tell nothing satisfactory about it. I suppose you know: can you write me word be fore the 2d? "The gentlemen are: Dr. Estremadura, accredited from the 'Constitutional Government,'--his credentials are dated the 2d of November; Don Paulo Vibeira, of the 'Friends of the People,' 5th of November; M. Antonio de Vesga, 'Constitution of 1823,' October 27th. They attach great importance to our decision, each having scrip to sell. In haste, truly yours." To this letter I returned the following reply:-- "SIR:--Our latest dates from Oronoco are to the 13th ultimo. The 'Constitution of '23' was then in full power. If, however, the policy of our government be to recognize the gentlemen whose principals shall be in office on the 2d proximo, it is a very different affair. "You may not be acquainted with the formulas for ascertaining the duration of any given modern revolution. I now use the following, which I find almost exactly correct. "Multiply the age of the President by the number of statute miles from the equator, divide by the number of pages in the given Constitution; the result will be the length of the outbreak, in days. This formula includes, as you will see, an allowance for the heat of the climate, the zeal of the leader, and the verbosity of the theorists. The Constitution of 1823 was reproclaimed on the 25th of October last If you will give the above formula into the hands of any of your clerks, the calculation from it will show that that government will go out of power on the 1st of February, at 25 minutes after 1, P.M. Your choice, on the 2d, must be therefore between Vibeira and Estremadura; here you will have no difficulty. Bobádil (Vibeira's principal) was on the 13th ultimo confined under sentence of death, at such a distance from the capital that he cannot possibly escape and get into power before the 2d of February. The 'Friends of the People,' in Oronoco, have always moved slowly; they never got up an insurrection in less than nineteen days' canvassing; that was in 1839. Generally they are even longer. Of course, Estremadura will be your man. "Believe me, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, "GEORGE HACKMATACK" The Cabinet had the good sense to act on my advice. My information proved nearly correct, the only error being one of seven minutes in the downfall of the 1823 Constitution. This arose from my making no allowance for difference of longitude between Piaut, where their government was established, and Opee, where it was crushed. The difference of time between those places is six minutes and fifty-three seconds, as the reader may see on a globe. Estremadura was, of course, presented to the President, and sold his scrip.] [Footnote G: Newspaper men of 1868 will be amused to think that half past one was late in 1836. At that time the "Great Western Mail" was due in Boston at 6 P.M., and there was no later news except "local," or an occasional horse express.] [Footnote H: The reader will observe the Arcadian habits of 1836, when the German was yet unknown.] [Footnote I: Anno Christi, 60.] [Footnote J: Tacit. Annal., xiv. 9] [Footnote K: Anno Christi, 60. See Neander, P. & T., B. iii. ch. x] [Footnote L: This correspondence, as preserved in the collections of fragments, has too much the aspect of a school-boy exercise to claim much credit, though high authorities support it as genuine. But the probability that there was such a correspondence, though now lost, is very strong.] [Footnote M: The Fire Alarm is the invention of Dr. William F. Channing: "A wizard of such dreaded fame, That when in Salamanca's cave, Him listed his magic wand to wave, The bells would ring in Notre Dame"] [Footnote N: I am proud to say that such suggestions have had so much weight, that in 1868 the alarm strikes the number of the box which first telegraphs danger, six-four, six-four, &c., six being the district number, and four the box number in that district.] [Footnote O: Tetrao lagopus.] [Footnote P: Which means, "In the thirteenth century," my dear little bell and coral reader. You have rightly guessed that the question means "What is the history of the Reformation in Hungary?"] 46088 ---- available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/storiesofexile00johniala Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Little Classics Edited by ROSSITER JOHNSON STORIES OF EXILE [Illustration] Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company The Riverside Press Cambridge 1914 Copyright, 1851 and 1879, by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Rose Hawthorne Lathrop Copyright, 1871 and 1899, by Fields, Osgood & Co. and Bret Harte Copyright, 1874, by James R. Osgood & Co. All Rights Reserved [Illustration] LITTLE CLASSICS. It is not more difficult for the mineralogist to define a metal, than for the critic to define a classic. No attribute or property of metal can be mentioned,--hardness, brittleness, malleability, magnetism, lustre,--but some acknowledged metal can be found which lacks it. So when we come to define what is classic in literature, we find not a single quality that may not be dispensed with, or that is not lacking in some universally accepted and canonized piece of composition. Is age a requisite? Consider Mr. Lincoln's speech at Gettysburg, which was recognized as classic and immortal the hour it was flashed from the wires and printed or misprinted in the five thousand journals of the land. Is perfection of plot or unity of design necessary? "David Copperfield" can hardly be said to have a plot, and the "Merchant of Venice" is notably lacking in unity. Is detailed grammatical and idiomatic correctness indispensable? Then how few are the absolute masters of English prose! It is with some feeling of embarrassment at this lack of any perfect test, that I have gathered the contents of these volumes and ventured to call them Little Classics. And yet the genuine lovers of literature, setting aside all attempt at conscious definition, and following only their artistic instincts, will not seriously differ in their opinion as to what deserves the name of classic and bears the warrant of immortality. The performance of this task has suggested the idea that, in romantic fiction, ours is the day of small things,--small as the diamond and the violet are small. Going freely through English literature to gather little classics, I have been surprised at finding so few that antedate the present century. Hawthorne, De Quincey, Poe, and Dr. Brown have put within the compass of a few pages as much plot and character, as much pathos, humor, human nature, metaphysical speculation, and dramatic effect, as commonly suffice for a full-length romance. The ponderous novel cannot be said to have had its day; but the indications are that it must soon cease to have more than its day. The work of art which, embodying a sacred principle or a living idea, condenses its plot, its moral, and its effective climax into the limits of a single sitting must, in an age of crowding books and rushing readers, possess a decisive advantage over the unwieldy conventional novel, with its caravan of characters and its long bewilderment of detail. The Ark of the Deluge may crumble on the mountain, but the Ark of the Covenant is borne by the people through all their wanderings, and enshrined in the temple when they rest. If the prevailing cast of these tales is sombre and tragic, it is not from any design on the part of the compiler; it is because, being true to nature and to human experience, they follow the inevitable course of human destiny. In the broad light of our daily life lie the superficial, the ephemeral, and the inessential; in its shadow lie God's solemn mysteries and man's profoundest studies. That in us which humor appeals to is selfish, and finds its limit within the narrow boundary of one's own being. That which pathos awakens is sacrificial in its tendency, and stretches a protecting arm, or offers a sympathetic heart, to all the world. NEW YORK, February, 1874. [Illustration] CONTENTS. PAGE ETHAN BRAND _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 7 THE SWANS OF LIR _Gerald Griffin_ 30 A NIGHT IN A WORKHOUSE _James Greenwood_ 56 THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT _Bret Harte_ 85 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY _Edward Everett Hale_ 101 FLIGHT OF A TARTAR TRIBE _Thomas De Quincey_ 137 [Illustration] NOTE. Thanks are due to the several American authors represented in this collection, and to their publishers, for the permission kindly given to use selections from their copyrighted works. [Illustration] ETHAN BRAND. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Bartram the lime-burner, a rough, heavy-looking man, begrimed with charcoal, sat watching his kiln, at nightfall, while his little son played at building houses with the scattered fragments of marble, when, on the hillside below them, they heard a roar of laughter, not mirthful, but slow, and even solemn, like a wind shaking the boughs of the forest. "Father, what is that?" asked the little boy, leaving his play, and pressing betwixt his father's knees. "O, some drunken man, I suppose!" answered the lime-burner; "some merry fellow from the bar-room in the village, who dared not laugh loud enough within doors, lest he should blow the roof of the house off. So here he is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of Graylock." "But, father," said the child, more sensitive than the obtuse, middle-aged clown, "he does not laugh like a man that is glad. So the noise frightens me!" "Don't be a fool, child!" cried his father, gruffly. "You will never make a man, I do believe; there is too much of your mother in you. I have known the rustling of a leaf startle you. Hark! Here comes the merry fellow, now. You shall see that there is no harm in him." Bartram and his little son, while they were talking thus, sat watching the same lime-kiln that had been the scene of Ethan Brand's solitary and meditative life, before he began his search for the Unpardonable Sin. Many years had elapsed since the portentous night when the IDEA was first developed. The kiln, however, on the mountain-side, stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed since he had thrown his dark thoughts into the intense glow of its furnace, and melted them, as it were, into the one thought that took possession of his life. It was a rude, round, tower-like structure, about twenty feet high, heavily built of rough stones, and with a hillock of earth heaped about the larger part of its circumference; so that the blocks and fragments of marble might be drawn by cart-loads, and thrown in at the top. There was an opening at the bottom of the tower like an oven-mouth, but large enough to admit a man in a stooping posture, and provided with a massive iron door. With the smoke and jets of flame issuing from the chinks and crevices of this door, which seemed to give admittance into the hillside, it resembled nothing so much as the private entrance to the infernal regions, which the shepherds of the Delectable Mountains were accustomed to show to pilgrims. There are many such lime-kilns in that tract of country, for the purpose of burning the white marble which composes a large part of the substance of the hills. Some of them, built years ago and long deserted, with weeds growing in the vacant round of the interior, which is open to the sky, and grass and wild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones, look already like relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the lichens of centuries to come. Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his daily and night-long fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the hills who seats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a chat with the solitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined to thought, may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in the case of Ethan Brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by, while the fire in this very kiln was burning. The man who now watched the fire was of a different order, and troubled himself with no thoughts save the very few that were requisite to his business. At frequent intervals he flung back the clashing weight of the iron door, and, turning his face from the insufferable glare, thrust in huge logs of oak, or stirred the immense brands with a long pole. Within the furnace were seen the curling and riotous flames, and the burning marble, almost molten with the intensity of heat; while without the reflection of the fire quivered on the dark intricacy of the surrounding forest, and showed in the foreground a bright and ruddy little picture of the hut, the spring beside its door, the athletic and coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner, and the half-frightened child, shrinking into the protection of his father's shadow. And when again the iron door was closed, then reappeared the tender light of the half-full moon, which vainly strove to trace out the indistinct shapes of the neighboring mountains; and, in the upper sky, there was a flitting congregation of clouds, still faintly tinged with the rosy sunset, though thus far down into the valley the sunshine had vanished long and long ago. The little boy now crept still closer to his father, as footsteps were heard ascending the hillside, and a human form thrust aside the bushes that clustered beneath the trees. "Halloo! who is it?" cried the lime-burner, vexed at his son's timidity, yet half infected by it. "Come forward, and show yourself, like a man, or I'll fling this chunk of marble at your head!" "You offer me a rough welcome," said a gloomy voice, as the unknown man drew nigh. "Yet I neither claim nor desire a kinder one, even at my own fireside." To obtain a distincter view, Bartram threw open the iron door of the kiln, whence immediately issued a gush of fierce light that smote full upon the stranger's face and figure. To a careless eye there appeared nothing very remarkable in his aspect, which was that of a man in a coarse, brown, country-made suit of clothes, tall and thin, with the staff and heavy shoes of a wayfarer. As he advanced, he fixed his eyes--which were very bright--intently upon the brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or expected to behold, some object worthy of note within it. "Good evening, stranger," said the lime-burner; "whence come you, so late in the day?" "I come from my search," answered the wayfarer; "for, at last, it is finished." "Drunk!--or crazy!" muttered Bartram to himself. "I shall have trouble with the fellow. The sooner I drive him away the better." The little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to his father, and begged him to shut the door of the kiln, so that there might not be so much light; for that there was something in the man's face which he was afraid to look at, yet could not look away from. And, indeed, even the lime-burner's dull and torpid sense began to be impressed by an indescribable something in that thin, rugged, thoughtful visage, with the grizzled hair hanging wildly about it, and those deeply sunken eyes, which gleamed like fires within the entrance of a mysterious cavern. But, as he closed the door, the stranger turned towards him, and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, that made Bartram feel as if he were a sane and sensible man, after all. "Your task draws to an end, I see," said he. "This marble has already been burning three days. A few hours more will convert the stone to lime." "Why, who are you?" exclaimed the lime-burner. "You seem as well acquainted with my business as I am myself." "And well I may be," said the stranger; "for I followed the same craft many a long year, and here, too, on this very spot. But you are a new-comer in these parts. Did you never hear of Ethan Brand?" "The man that went in search of the Unpardonable Sin?" asked Bartram, with a laugh. "The same," answered the stranger. "He has found what he sought, and therefore he comes back again." "What! then you are Ethan Brand himself?" cried the lime-burner, in amazement. "I am a new-comer here, as you say, and they call it eighteen years since you left the foot of Graylock. But I can tell you, the good folks still talk about Ethan Brand, in the village yonder, and what a strange errand took him away from his lime-kiln. Well, and so you have found the Unpardonable Sin?" "Even so!" said the stranger, calmly. "If the question is a fair one," proceeded Bartram, "where might it be?" Ethan Brand laid his finger on his own heart. "Here!" replied he. And then, without mirth in his countenance, but as if moved by an involuntary recognition of the infinite absurdity of seeking throughout the world for what was the closest of all things to himself, and looking into every heart, save his own, for what was hidden in no other breast, he broke into a laugh of scorn. It was the same slow, heavy laugh, that had almost appalled the lime-burner when it heralded the wayfarer's approach. The solitary mountain-side was made dismal by it. Laughter, when out of place, mistimed, or bursting forth from a disordered state of feeling, may be the most terrible modulation of the human voice. The laughter of one asleep, even if it be a little child,--the madman's laugh,--the wild, screaming laugh of a born idiot,--are sounds that we sometimes tremble to hear, and would always willingly forget. Poets have imagined no utterance of fiends or hobgoblins so fearfully appropriate as a laugh. And even the obtuse lime-burner felt his nerves shaken, as this strange man looked inward at his own heart, and burst into laughter that rolled away into the night, and was indistinctly reverberated among the hills. "Joe," said he to his little son, "scamper down to the tavern in the village, and tell the jolly fellows there that Ethan Brand has come back, and that he has found the Unpardonable Sin!" The boy darted away on his errand, to which Ethan Brand made no objection, nor seemed hardly to notice it. He sat on a log of wood, looking steadfastly at the iron door of the kiln. When the child was out of sight, and his swift and light footsteps ceased to be heard treading first on the fallen leaves and then on the rocky mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret his departure. He felt that the little fellow's presence had been a barrier between his guest and himself, and that he must now deal, heart to heart, with a man who, on his own confession, had committed the one only crime for which Heaven could afford no mercy. That crime, in its indistinct blackness, seemed to overshadow him. The lime-burner's own sins rose up within him, and made his memory riotous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted their kindred with the Master Sin, whatever it might be, which it was within the scope of man's corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. They were all of one family; they went to and fro between his breast and Ethan Brand's, and carried dark greetings from one to the other. Then Bartram remembered the stories which had grown traditionary in reference to this strange man, who had come upon him like a shadow of the night, and was making himself at home in his old place, after so long absence that the dead people, dead and buried for years, would have had more right to be at home, in any familiar spot, than he. Ethan Brand, it was said, had conversed with Satan himself in the lurid blaze of this very kiln. The legend had been matter of mirth heretofore, but looked grisly now. According to this tale, before Ethan Brand departed on his search, he had been accustomed to evoke a fiend from the hot furnace of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order to confer with him about the Unpardonable Sin; the man and the fiend each laboring to frame the image of some mode of guilt which could neither be atoned for nor forgiven. And, with the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top, the fiend crept in at the iron door, there to abide the intensest element of fire, until again summoned forth to share in the dreadful task of extending man's possible guilt beyond the scope of Heaven's else infinite mercy. While the lime-burner was struggling with the horror of these thoughts, Ethan Brand rose from the log, and flung open the door of the kiln. The action was in such accordance with the idea in Bartram's mind, that he almost expected to see the Evil One issue forth, red-hot from the raging furnace. "Hold! hold!" cried he, with a tremulous attempt to laugh; for he was ashamed of his fears, although they overmastered him. "Don't, for mercy's sake, bring out your devil now!" "Man!" sternly replied Ethan Brand, "what need have I of the devil? I have left him behind me, on my track. It is with such half-way sinners as you that he busies himself. Fear not, because I open the door. I do but act by old custom, and am going to trim your fire, like a lime-burner, as I was once." He stirred the vast coals, thrust in more wood, and bent forward to gaze into the hollow prison-house of the fire, regardless of the fierce glow that reddened upon his face. The lime-burner sat watching him, and half suspected his strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at least to plunge bodily into the flames, and thus vanish from the sight of man. Ethan Brand, however, drew quietly back, and closed the door of the kiln. "I have looked," said he, "into many a human heart that was seven times hotter with sinful passions than yonder furnace is with fire. But I found not there what I sought. No, not the Unpardonable Sin!" "What is the Unpardonable Sin?" asked the lime-burner; and then he shrank farther from his companion, trembling lest his question should be answered. "It is a sin that grew within my own breast," replied Ethan Brand, standing erect, with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his stamp. "A sin that grew nowhere else! The sin of an intellect that triumphed over the sense of brotherhood with man and reverence for God, and sacrificed everything to its own mighty claims! The only sin that deserves a recompense of immortal agony! Freely, were it to do again, would I incur the guilt. Unshrinkingly I accept the retribution!" "The man's head is turned," muttered the lime-burner to himself. "He may be a sinner, like the rest of us,--nothing more, likely,--but, I'll be sworn, he is a madman too." Nevertheless he felt uncomfortable at his situation, alone with Ethan Brand on the wild mountain-side, and was right glad to hear the rough murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty numerous party, stumbling over the stones and rustling through the underbrush. Soon appeared the whole lazy regiment that was wont to infest the village tavern, comprehending three or four individuals who had drunk flip beside the bar-room fire through all the winters, and smoked their pipes beneath the stoop through all the summers, since Ethan Brand's departure. Laughing boisterously, and mingling all their voices together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the moonshine and narrow streaks of firelight that illuminated the open space before the lime-kiln. Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the spot with light, that the whole company might get a fair view of Ethan Brand, and he of them. There, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous man, now almost extinct, but whom we were formerly sure to encounter at the hotel of every thriving village throughout the country. It was the stage-agent. The present specimen of the genus was a wilted and smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed, in a smartly cut, brown, bobtailed coat, with brass buttons, who, for a length of time unknown, had kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and was still puffing what seemed to be the same cigar that he had lighted twenty years before. He had great fame as a dry joker, though, perhaps, less on account of any intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of brandy-toddy and tobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and expressions, as well as his person. Another well-remembered though strangely altered face was that of Lawyer Giles, as people still called him in courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, in his soiled shirt-sleeves and tow-cloth trousers. This poor fellow had been an attorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and in great vogue among the village litigants; but flip and sling and toddy and cocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, had caused him to slide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till at last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a soap-vat. In other words, Giles was now a soap-boiler, in a small way. He had come to be but the fragment of a human being, a part of one foot having been chopped off by an axe, and an entire hand torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine. Yet, though the corporeal hand was gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth the stump, Giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingers with as vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. A maimed and miserable wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the world could not trample on, and had no right to scorn, either in this or any previous stage of his misfortunes, since he had still kept up the courage and spirit of a man, asked nothing in charity, and with his one hand--and that the left one--fought a stern battle against want and hostile circumstances. Among the throng, too, came another personage, who, with certain points of similarity to Lawyer Giles, had many more of difference. It was the village doctor, a man of some fifty years, a purple-visaged, rude, and brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with something wild, ruined, and desperate in his talk, and in all the details of his gesture and manners. Brandy possessed this man like an evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as a wild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be in him such wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any which medical science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would not let him sink out of its reach. So, swaying to and fro upon his horse, and grumbling thick accents at the bed-side, he visited all the sick-chambers for miles about among the mountain towns, and sometimes raised a dying man, as it were, by miracle, or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to a grave that was dug many a year too soon. The doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, and, as somebody said, in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was always alight with hell-fire. These three worthies pressed forward, and greeted Ethan Brand each after his own fashion, earnestly inviting him to partake of the contents of a certain black bottle, in which, as they averred, he would find something far better worth seeking for than the Unpardonable Sin. No mind, which has wrought itself by intense and solitary meditation into a high state of enthusiasm, can endure the kind of contact with low and vulgar modes of thought and feeling to which Ethan Brand was now subjected. It made him doubt,--and, strange to say, it was a painful doubt,--whether he had indeed found the Unpardonable Sin, and found it within himself. The whole question on which he had exhausted life, and more than life, looked like a delusion. "Leave me," he said bitterly, "ye brute beasts, that have made yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery liquors! I have done with you. Years and years ago I groped into your hearts, and found nothing there for my purpose. Get ye gone!" "Why, you uncivil scoundrel," cried the fierce doctor, "is that the way you respond to the kindness of your best friends? Then let me tell you the truth. You have no more found the Unpardonable Sin than yonder boy Joe has. You are but a crazy fellow,--I told you so twenty years ago,--neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit companion of old Humphrey, here!" He pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed, with long white hair, thin visage, and unsteady eyes. For some years past this aged person had been wandering about among the hills, inquiring of all travellers whom he met for his daughter. The girl, it seemed, had gone off with a company of circus-performers; and occasionally tidings of her came to the village, and fine stories were told of her glittering appearance as she rode on horseback in the ring, or performed marvellous feats on the tight-rope. The white-haired father now approached Ethan Brand, and gazed unsteadily into his face. "They tell me you have been all over the earth," said he, wringing his hands with earnestness. "You must have seen my daughter, for she makes a grand figure in the world, and everybody goes to see her. Did she send any word to her old father, or say when she was coming back?" Ethan Brand's eye quailed beneath the old man's. That daughter, with a cold and remorseless purpose, Ethan Brand had made the subject of a psychological experiment, and wasted, absorbed, and perhaps annihilated her soul, in the process. "Yes," murmured he, turning away from the hoary wanderer; "it is no delusion. There is an Unpardonable Sin!" While these things were passing, a merry scene was going forward in the area of cheerful light, beside the spring and before the door of the hut. A number of the youth of the village, young men and girls, had hurried up the hillside, impelled by curiosity to see Ethan Brand, the hero of so many a legend familiar to their childhood. Finding nothing, however, very remarkable in his aspect, nothing but a sunburnt wayfarer, in plain garb and dusty shoes, who sat looking into the fire, as if he fancied pictures among the coals,--these young people speedily grew tired of observing him. As it happened, there was other amusement at hand. An old German Jew, travelling with a diorama on his back, was passing down the mountain-road toward the village just as the party turned aside from it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits of the day, the showman had kept them company to the lime-kiln. "Come, old Dutchman," cried one of the young men, "let us see your pictures, if you can swear they are worth looking at!" "O yes, Captain," answered the Jew,--whether as a matter of courtesy or craft, he styled everybody Captain,--"I shall show you, indeed, some very superb pictures!" So, placing his box in a proper position, he invited the young men and girls to look through the glass orifices of the machine, and proceeded to exhibit a series of the most outrageous scratchings and daubings, as specimens of the fine arts, that ever an itinerant showman had the face to impose upon his circle of spectators. The pictures were worn out, moreover, tattered, full of cracks and wrinkles, dingy with tobacco-smoke, and otherwise in a most pitiable condition. Some purported to be cities, public edifices, and ruined castles in Europe; others represented Napoleon's battles and Nelson's sea-fights; and in the midst of these would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy hand,--which might have been mistaken for the Hand of Destiny, though, in truth, it was only the showman's,--pointing its forefinger to various scenes of the conflict, whilst its owner gave historical illustrations. When, with much merriment at its abominable deficiency of merit, the exhibition was concluded, the German bade little Joe put his head into the box. Viewed through the magnifying-glasses, the boy's round, rosy visage assumed the strangest imaginable aspect of an immense Titanic child, the mouth grinning broadly, and the eyes and every other feature overflowing with fun at the joke. Suddenly, however, that merry face turned pale, and its expression changed to horror, for this easily impressed and excitable child had become sensible that the eye of Ethan Brand was fixed upon him through the glass. "You make the little man to be afraid, Captain," said the German Jew, turning up the dark and strong outline of his visage, from his stooping posture. "But look again, and, by chance, I shall cause you to see somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!" Ethan Brand gazed into the box for an instant, and then starting back, looked fixedly at the German. What had he seen? Nothing, apparently; for a curious youth, who had peeped in almost at the same moment, beheld only a vacant space of canvas. "I remember you now," muttered Ethan Brand to the showman. "Ah, Captain," whispered the Jew of Nuremberg, with a dark smile, "I find it to be a heavy matter in my show-box,--this Unpardonable Sin! By my faith, Captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry it over the mountain." "Peace," answered Ethan Brand, sternly, "or get thee into the furnace yonder!" The Jew's exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderly dog--that seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laid claim to him--saw fit to render himself the object of public notice. Hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old dog, going round from one to another, and, by way of being sociable, offering his rough head to be patted by any kindly hand that would take so much trouble. But now, all of a sudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, of his own mere motion, and without the slightest suggestion from anybody else, began to run round after his tail, which, to heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal shorter than it should have been. Never was seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit of an object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such a tremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping,--as if one end of the ridiculous brute's body were at deadly and most unforgivable enmity with the other. Faster and faster, round about went the cur; and faster and still faster fled the unapproachable brevity of his tail; and louder and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animosity; until, utterly exhausted, and as far from the goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased his performance as suddenly as he had begun it. The next moment he was as mild, quiet, sensible, and respectable in his deportment, as when he first scraped acquaintance with the company. As may be supposed, the exhibition was greeted with universal laughter, clapping of hands, and shouts of encore, to which the canine performer responded by wagging all that there was to wag of his tail, but appeared totally unable to repeat his very successful effort to amuse the spectators. Meanwhile Ethan Brand had resumed his seat upon the log, and moved, it might be, by a perception of some remote analogy between his own case and that of this self-pursuing cur, he broke into the awful laugh, which, more than any other token, expressed the condition of his inward being. From that moment the merriment of the party was at an end; they stood aghast, dreading lest the inauspicious sound should be reverberated around the horizon, and that mountain would thunder it to mountain, and so the horror be prolonged upon their ears. Then, whispering one to another that it was late,--that the moon was almost down,--that the August night was growing chill,--they hurried homewards, leaving the lime-burner and little Joe to deal as they might with their unwelcome guest. Save for these three human beings, the open space on the hillside was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of forest. Beyond that darksome verge the firelight glimmered on the stately trunks and almost black foliage of pines, intermixed with the lighter verdure of sapling oaks, maples, and poplars, while here and there lay the gigantic corpses of dead trees, decaying on the leaf-strewn soil. And it seemed to little Joe--a timorous and imaginative child--that the silent forest was holding its breath, until some fearful thing should happen. Ethan Brand thrust more wood into the fire, and closed the door of the kiln; then looking over his shoulder at the lime-burner and his son, he bade, rather than advised, them to retire to rest. "For myself, I cannot sleep," said he. "I have matters that it concerns me to meditate upon. I will watch the fire, as I used to do in the old time." "And call the devil out of the furnace to keep you company, I suppose," muttered Bartram, who had been making intimate acquaintance with the black bottle above mentioned. "But watch, if you like, and call as many devils as you like! For my part, I shall be all the better for a snooze. Come, Joe!" As the boy followed his father into the hut, he looked back at the wayfarer, and the tears came into his eyes; for his tender spirit had an intuition of the bleak and terrible loneliness in which this man had enveloped himself. When they had gone Ethan Brand sat listening to the crackling of the kindled wood, and looking at the little spirts of fire that issued through the chinks of the door. These trifles, however, once so familiar, had but the slightest hold of his attention, while deep within his mind he was reviewing the gradual but marvellous change that had been wrought upon him by the search to which he had devoted himself. He remembered how the night dew had fallen upon him,--how the dark forest had whispered to him,--how the stars had gleamed upon him,--a simple and loving man, watching his fire in the years gone by, and ever musing as it burned. He remembered with what tenderness, with what love and sympathy for mankind, and what pity for human guilt and woe, he had first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards became the inspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into the heart of man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and, however desecrated, still to be held sacred by a brother; with what awful fear he had deprecated the success of his pursuit, and prayed that the Unpardonable Sin might never be revealed to him. Then ensued that vast intellectual development, which in its progress disturbed the counterpoise between his mind and heart. The Idea that possessed his life had operated as a means of education; it had gone on cultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were susceptible; it had raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer to stand on a star-lit eminence, whither the philosophers of the earth, laden with the lore of universities, might vainly strive to clamber after him. So much for the intellect! But where was the heart? That, indeed, had withered,--had contracted,--had hardened,--had perished! It had ceased to partake of the universal throb. He had lost his hold of the magnetic chain of humanity. He was no longer a brother-man, opening the chambers or the dungeons of our common nature by the key of holy sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all its secrets; he was now a cold observer, looking on mankind as the subject of his experiment, and at length converting man and woman to be his puppets, and pulling the wires that moved them to such degrees of crime as were demanded for his study. Thus Ethan Brand became a fiend. He began to be so from the moment that his moral nature had ceased to keep the pace of improvement with his intellect. And now, as his highest effort and inevitable development,--as the bright and gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of his life's labor,--he had produced the Unpardonable Sin! "What more have I to seek? What more to achieve?" said Ethan Brand to himself. "My task is done, and well done!" Starting from the log with a certain alacrity in his gait, and ascending the hillock of earth that was raised against the stone circumference of the lime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the structure. It was a space of perhaps ten feet across from edge to edge, presenting a view of the upper surface of the immense mass of broken marble with which the kiln was heaped. All these innumerable blocks and fragments of marble were red-hot and vividly on fire, sending up great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft and danced madly as within a magic circle, and sank and rose again with continual and multitudinous activity. As the lonely man bent forward over this terrible body of fire, the blasting heat smote up against his person with a breath that, it might be supposed, would have scorched and shrivelled him up in a moment. Ethan Brand stood erect, and raised his arms on high. The blue flames played upon his face, and imparted the wild and ghastly light which alone could have suited its expression; it was that of a fiend on the verge of plunging into his gulf of intensest torment. "O Mother Earth," cried he, "who art no more my Mother, and into whose bosom this frame shall never be resolved! O mankind, whose brotherhood I have cast off, and trampled thy great heart beneath my feet! O stars of heaven that shone on me of old, as if to light me onward and upward!--farewell all, and forever! Come, deadly element of Fire,--henceforth my familiar friend! Embrace me, as I do thee!" That night the sound of a fearful peal of laughter rolled heavily through the sleep of the lime-burner and his little son; dim shapes of horror and anguish haunted their dreams, and seemed still present in the rude hovel when they opened their eyes to the daylight. "Up, boy, up!" cried the lime-burner, staring about him. "Thank Heaven, the night is gone at last; and rather than pass such another, I would watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for a twelvemonth. This Ethan Brand, with his humbug of an Unpardonable Sin, has done me no such mighty favor in taking my place!" He issued from the hut, followed by little Joe, who kept fast hold of his father's hand. The early sunshine was already pouring its gold upon the mountain-tops; and though the valleys were still in shadow, they smiled cheerfully in the promise of the bright day that was hastening onward. The village, completely shut in by hills which swelled away gently about it, looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hollow of the great hand of Providence. Every dwelling was distinctly visible; the little spires of the two churches pointed upwards, and caught a fore-glimmering of brightness from the sun-gilt skies upon their gilded weathercocks. The tavern was astir, and the figure of the old smoke-dried stage-agent, cigar in mouth, was seen beneath the stoop. Old Graylock was glorified with a golden cloud upon his head. Scattered likewise over the breasts of the surrounding mountains, there were heaps of hoary mist in fantastic shapes, some of them far down into the valley, others high up towards the summits, and still others, of the same family of mist or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the upper atmosphere. Stepping from one to another of the clouds that rested on the hills, and thence to the loftier brotherhood that sailed in air, it seemed almost as if a mortal man might thus ascend into the heavenly regions. Earth was so mingled with sky that it was a day-dream to look at it. To supply that charm of the familiar and homely, which Nature so readily adopts into a scene like this, the stage-coach was rattling down the mountain-road, and the driver sounded his horn, while echo caught up the notes, and intertwined them into a rich and varied and elaborate harmony, of which the original performer could lay claim to little share. The great hills played a concert among themselves, each contributing a strain of airy sweetness. Little Joe's face brightened at once. "Dear father," cried he, skipping cheerily to and fro, "that strange man is gone, and the sky and the mountains all seem glad of it!" "Yes," growled the lime-burner, with an oath, "but he has let the fire go down, and no thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime are not spoiled. If I catch the fellow hereabouts again, I shall feel like tossing him into the furnace!" With his long pole in his hand, he ascended to the top of the kiln. After a moment's pause, he called to his son. "Come up here, Joe!" said he. So little Joe ran up the hillock, and stood by his father's side. The marble was all burnt into perfect, snow-white lime. But on its surface, in the midst of the circle,--snow-white too, and thoroughly converted into lime,--lay a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person who, after long toil, lies down to long repose. Within the ribs--strange to say--was the shape of a human heart. "Was the fellow's heart made of marble?" cried Bartram, in some perplexity at this phenomenon. "At any rate, it is burnt into what looks like special good lime; and, taking all the bones together, my kiln is half a bushel the richer for him." So saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his pole, and, letting it fall upon the skeleton, the relics of Ethan Brand were crumbled into fragments. [Illustration] THE SWANS OF LIR. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. After the battle of Tailltean, the Tuatha Danaans assembled together from the remotest corners of the five provinces of Ireland, in order to make arrangements for the future government of the isle. All agreed that it was better the whole country should be united under one monarch, chosen by common consent, than to continue subject to the interminable dissensions and oppressive imposts, arising from the rivalry of a number of petty sovereigns. Six candidates aspired to this supreme power, namely, Bogh Dearg, or Red Bow, of the tribe of the Deasies; Ibbreac, or the Many Colored, from the Red Stream; Lir; Fiuvar the Royal; Mioyar of the Great Burthen, so surnamed from his prodigious strength; and Aongusa Og, or young Oneas. All the rest of the Tuatha Danaans, except the six candidates, then went into council, and the determination was, to give the kingdom to Bogh Dearg, for three reasons. The first reason was, that his father had been a good man in his time; the second, that he was a good man himself; and the third, that he came of the best blood in the nation. When Lir heard that the crown was to be given to Bogh Dearg, indignant at the choice, he returned to his own home, without waiting to see the new king inaugurated, or letting any of the assembly know that he was going, for he was convinced that the choice of the people would have fallen upon himself. Bogh Dearg, however, was proclaimed in due form, by the unanimous consent of the assembly, none of the five rejected candidates opposing his election, except Lir alone. The ceremonies being concluded, the assembled tribes called on the new monarch to lead them in pursuit of Lir. "Let us burn and spoil his territory," said they. "Why dares he, who never had a king in his family, presume to slight the sovereign we have chosen?" "We will follow no such counsel," replied Bogh Dearg. "His ancestors and himself have always kept the province in which he lives in peace, and it will take nothing from my sovereignty over the Tuatha Danaans, to allow him still to hold his own possessions there." The assembly, not fully satisfied with this reply, debated much on the course they had best take; but after much discussion, the question was allowed to rest for a time. Meanwhile an incident occurred which pressed heavily on the mind of Lir. His wife, whom he tenderly loved, fell ill and died in three nights. The report of her death, which was looked upon as a grievous loss in her own country, soon spread all over Ireland. It reached at length the ears of Bogh Dearg, and of the princes and nobles who were at his palace. "Now," said the monarch, "if Lir were willing to accede to it, I could propose a mode of redoubling the present friendship which I entertain for Lir. You all know that I have three daughters, the fairest in the kingdom, and I would praise them further, but that I am their father. I mean Aov, Aoife, and Alve, of whom Lir might choose which he pleased, to supply the place of his dead wife." The speech of the king circulated amongst the Tuatha Danaans, and all agreed that a messenger ought to be sent to Lir in order to propose the connection, with a suitable dowry for the bride. When the ambassador arrived at the palace of Lir, he found the latter willing to accept the proposal, and, accordingly, both returned together to the royal residence of Bogh Dearg, on the shores of Lough Derg, where they were received on the part of the Tuatha Danaans with all the acclamations that even a more popular prince could expect. All parties seemed to take an interest in promoting the union. The three daughters were sitting on chairs richly ornamented, in a hall of their father's palace. Near them sat the queen, wife of Bogh Dearg. When Lir and the monarch entered, the latter directed his attention to the three princesses, and bade him choose which he would. "I do not know which of the three to choose," said Lir, "but the eldest is the most royal, and besides it is just that she should have precedence of the rest." "Then," said the monarch, "that is Aov." "Aov, then, I choose," replied Lir. The marriage was celebrated with the magnificence becoming the rank of the parties. They remained a fortnight in the palace of the monarch, after which they went to the residence of Lir, who gave a splendid banquet on his arrival. In the progress of time Aov had twins, a son and a daughter, who were named, the one Fingula, and the other Aodh, or Eugene. In her next confinement, she gave birth to two sons, to whom were given the names of Fiacra and Cornu, but died herself, in a few days after. Lir was exceedingly grieved at her death, and, only for the love he bore his children, would almost have wished to die along with her. The tidings reached the monarch, who, together with all his household, made great lamentations for his eldest daughter, grieving more especially for the affliction which it caused to Lir. "Nevertheless," said the monarch, "what has occurred need not dissolve the connection between Lir and us, for he can, if he please, take my second daughter, Aoife, to supply her place." This speech, as was intended, soon found its way to Lir, who set out immediately for the palace of Bogh Dearg. The marriage was celebrated with the same splendor as on the former occasion, and Lir, after spending some time at the monarch's palace, returned to his house with Aoife, where he received her with all the love and honor which she could expect. For some time Aoife returned the same to him and to his children; and indeed any person who once saw those children could not avoid giving them all the love which any creature could receive. Frequently the old monarch came to see them to Lir's house, and often took them to his own, where he would gladly keep them, but that their father could not bear to have them out of his sight. It was the custom of the Tuatha Danaans to entertain each other in succession. When they assembled at the house of Lir, the four children were the whole subject of discourse, and the chief ornament of the day, they were so fair and so winning both in their appearances and their dispositions; and even as they dispersed to their several homes, the guests were heard to speak of nothing else. Lir himself would rise every morning at daybreak, and going to the apartment in which his children lay, would lie down among them for a while. The black poison of jealousy began at length to insinuate itself into the mind of Aoife. As if the love of Lir were not wide enough to comprehend them and herself, she conceived a mortal hatred against her sister's children. She feigned illness, and remained nearly a year in that condition, totally occupied in devising in her mind some means of ruining the children. One morning she ordered her chariot, to the great surprise of Lir, who, however, was well pleased at this sign of returning health. Aoife next desired that the four children of Lir should be placed in the chariot with her, and drove away in the direction of Bogh Dearg's house. It was much against her will that Fingula, the daughter, went into the carriage, for she had long observed the increasing coolness in the mind of her step-mother, and guessed that she had no kindly purpose in her thoughts at present. She could not, however, avoid the destiny that was prepared for her, nor escape the suffering which she was doomed to undergo. Aoife continued her journey until she arrived at Fiondach, where dwelt some of her father's people whom she knew to be deeply skilled in the art of the Druids. Having arrived at their residence, she went into the place where they were, and endeavored to prevail on them to kill the children, telling them that their father through his affection for them had slighted her, and promising to bestow on them all the riches which they could require. "Ah," replied the Druids, "we would not kill the children of Lir for the whole world. You took an evil thought into your mind, and left your shame behind you, when you came with such a request to us." "Then if you will not," cried Aoife, seizing a sword which lay near, "I will avenge myself, for I am resolved they shall not live." Saying these words, she rushed out with the drawn sword, but through her womanhood she lost her courage when she was about to strike at the children. She then returned the sword to the Druids, and said she could not kill them. Aoife resumed her journey, and they all drove on until they reached the shores of Lough Dairvreac, on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. Here she unharnessed the horses, and desired the children to descend and bathe in the lake. They did as she bade, but when all were in the water, she took a magic wand and struck them with it one after another. One after another the forms of the beautiful children disappeared, and four white swans were seen upon the water in their stead, when she addressed them in the following words:-- AOIFE. Away, you children of the king! I have separated your lives from joy. Your people will grieve to hear these tidings, but you shall continue birds. What I have done, I have done through hatred of you, and malice to your father. THE CHILDREN. We, left here on the waters, must be tossed from wave to wave. In the mean time Lir, returning to his palace, missed his children, and finding Aoife not yet come home, immediately guessed that she had destroyed them, for he likewise had observed her jealousy. In the morning he ordered his chariot to be prepared, and, following the track of his wife, travelled along until he came to the Lake of the Speckled Oak, when the children saw the chariot approaching, and Fingula spoke as follows:-- By yon old Oak, whose branches hoar Wave o'er Lough Dairvreac's lonely shore, Bright in the morn, a dazzling line Of helms and silver targets shine; Speed, brethren dear, speed towards the shelving strand, 'Tis royal Lir himself who leads the shining band. Lir came to the brink of the water, and when he heard the birds conversing, as they drew nigh, in human language, he asked them how they became endowed with that surprising gift. "Know, Lir," replied Fingula, "that we are your four children, who, through the frantic jealousy of our step-mother, and our own mother's sister, have been reduced to this unhappy condition." "Are there any means," asked the wretched father, "by which you can ever be restored to your own forms again?" "None," replied Fingula; "there is no man in existence able to effect that change, nor can it ever take place until a woman from the south, named Deocha, daughter of Ingri, the son of Black Hugh, and a man from the north, named Lairgnean, the son of Colman, shall occasion our deliverance in the time of THE TAILGEAN,[A] when the Christian faith and charity shall come into Ireland." When Lir and his attendants heard these words, they uttered three doleful cries. "Are you satisfied," said Lir, "since you retain your speech and reason, to come and remain with us?" "It is not in our power to do so," replied Fingula, "nor are we at liberty to commit ourselves to the hands of man, until what I have told you shall have come to pass. But in the mean time we possess our speech and our mental faculties as fully as ever, and are moreover endowed with one additional quality, which is that we can sing the most melodious airs that the world has ever heard, and there is no mortal that would not feel a pleasure in listening to our voices. Remain with us for this night, and you shall hear our music." [Footnote A: Tailgean, or the Holy Offspring, a name supposed to have been applied by the Druids to St. Patrick, previous to his arrival in Ireland.--_O'Brien's Irish Dictionary._] When Lir had heard these words, he ordered his followers to unharness their steeds, and they remained during the whole night on the strand, listening to the music of the birds, until all were lulled to sleep by the enchanting melody, excepting Lir alone. In the morning Lir arose from the bank on which he lay, and addressed his children in the following words:-- In vain I stretch my aching limbs And close my weeping eyes, In vain my children's moonlight hymns For me alone arise. 'Tis morn again, on wave and strand, My children, we must part; A word that like a burning brand Falls on your father's heart. O had I seen this fatal hour, When Lir's malignant queen First sought his old paternal tower, This hour had never been! As thus between the shore and you The widening waters grow, So spreads my darkening spirits through The sense of cureless woe. Lir departed from the lake, and, still following the track of Aoife, came to the palace of the Ard-Righ, or Chief King, as Bogh Dearg was entitled. The monarch welcomed him, but complained of his not having brought his children as usual. "Alas, poor that I am!" said Lir, "it is not I who would keep my children from your sight, but Aoife yonder, once your darling, and the sister of their mother, who has had them transformed into four swans, and abandoned them on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. They have been seen in that place by a great multitude of our people, who have heard the story from themselves, for they retain their speech and reason as before." The monarch started at these words, and, looking on Aoife, immediately became convinced that Lir had spoken the truth. He began to upbraid his daughter in a rough and angry tone. "Malicious as you were," said he, "you will suffer more by this cruel deed than the children of Lir, for they in the progress of time will be released from their sufferings, and their souls will be made happy in the end." He then asked her into what shape of all living creatures she would least like to be transformed. "Speak," said he, "for it is not in your power to avoid telling the truth." Aoife, thus constrained, replied with a horrible look and tone, that there was no form which she more abhorred than that of a Deamhain Eidhir, or Demon of the Air. "That form, then," said the monarch, "shall soon be yours"; and while he said so, he took a magic collar and laid it on her. Immediately losing her own shape, she flew away, shrieking, in that of a foul Spirit of the Air, in which she continues to this day, and will to the end of time, according to her deserts. Soon afterwards, the monarch and the Tuatha Danaans went to the Lake of the Speckled Oak and encamped upon its shores, listening to the music of the birds. The Sons of Mile, likewise, came thither from every part of Ireland, and formed an encampment in the same place, for there never was music comparable to that of those swans. Sometimes they related their mournful story, sometimes they would answer the questions proposed to them by the people on shore, and talk familiarly with their relatives and friends, and at others they sung, both by day and night, the most delightful music that was ever heard by human ear; so that the listeners on shore, notwithstanding the grief and uneasiness in which they continued, enjoyed as sweet sleep, and arose as fresh and vigorous, as if they had been resting in their accustomed beds at home. The two multitudes of the Sons of Mile, and of the Tuatha Danaans, thus remained in their respective encampments during the space of thirty years. At the end of that time, Fingula addressed her brethren as follows:-- "Are you ignorant, my brothers, that but one night is left of the time which you were to spend upon the lake?" On hearing this, the three brethren grew very sorrowful, and uttered many plaintive cries and sounds of grief; for they were almost as happy on that lake, enjoying the company of their friends and relatives, talking with them and answering their questions, as they would have been in their own home; more especially, when compared to the grief they felt on leaving it for the wild and stormy sea that lies to the north of Ireland. Early in the morning they came as close to the brink of the lake as they could, and spoke to their father and their friends, to all of whom they bade a mournful farewell, repeating those pitiful lines that follow:-- Receive, O royal sage, our last farewell, Thou of the potent spell! And thou, O Lir, deep skilled in mystic lore-- We meet--we meet no more! The sum complete of our appointed hours, We leave your happy bowers. Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'er We meet, we meet no more! Forever now to human converse lost, On Moyle's wild waters tost, Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail, To weave a mournful tale. Three lingering ages on the northern main To waste in various pain. Three lingering ages in the stormy west To heave on ocean's breast. Sad is our doom, dear friends, on wintry seas Through many a year to freeze,-- Harsh brine and rocks, with horrid sea-weed brown For Lir's soft beds of down! No more the joy of Lir's paternal breast, Early we part unblest! A power unseen commands that we forsake Lone Dairvreac's peaceful lake. Rise from the wave, companions of my fear, Rise, brethren dear! Bright wave and pebbly beach and echoing dell, Farewell, a last farewell! And you, dear friends, who throng the leafy shore, We meet--we meet no more! Having ended those verses, the swans took wing and, arising lightly on the air, continued their flight until they reached the Sruih na Maoile, or the Sea of Moyle, as those waters were called which flowed between Ireland and Scotland. Their departure occasioned deep sorrow to all who witnessed it, and they had a law proclaimed throughout the kingdom, that any one, from the king to the peasant, who should kill a swan, let his power be as great as it might, should meet with certain death. In the mean time, the children of Lir found that they had made an unhappy change of place. When they saw the broad wild ocean around them, they grew cold and hungry, and began to fall into despair, thinking that all they ever suffered was nothing until they were sent to these seas. They remained on the waters until one night it began to freeze very hard. "My loving brothers," said Fingula, "we make very unwise provision against the coming night if we do not keep close together; and lest by any mischance we should lose sight of each other, let us appoint a place where we may meet again as soon as it may be in our power." "In that case, dear sister," said the three brothers, "let us meet at the Carrig na Roin (or the Rock of the Seals), for that is a place with which we are all acquainted." They continued thus until about the middle of the night. The wind then increased to a storm, the waters arose, and the mountains of brine as they rolled and broke around them sparkled in the gloom as if they had taken fire. So great was the tempest that the children of Lir were separated by the waves. All were scattered far and wide, nor could one tell whither any of the three others had been driven. At length it abated a little of its violence, the deep became more settled, and Fingula found herself alone. Not being able to see her brethren anywhere around, she felt the deepest anxiety of mind, and at length broke forth into the following words:-- Heart-broken o'er these seas I glide, My frozen wings together clinging: No more along the stormy tide I hear my brethren singing. Three lingering ages, marked by woes, Since first we left Lone Dairvreac's water Break, break, my heart, and give repose To Lir's unhappy daughter. Beloved alike, O loved so well, That made your sister's breast your pillow. Tell me, my wandering brethren, tell, Where roam you o'er the billow? Hid by what rocks or secret caves, That wont beneath my wings to slumber, I fear the dead will leave their graves, Ere time restore our number. Tossed by the surge and sleety storm At random o'er this briny water; Woe, woe to all who share the form Of Lir's unhappy daughter. Fingula remained that night on the Rock of the Seals. At sunrise the next morning, looking out in every direction along the water, she saw Cornu coming towards her with head drooping, and feathers drenched with spray, so cold and feeble that he could not answer her questions. Fingula received him lovingly under her wings, and said:-- "If Eugene were with us now, our condition would be tolerable." Not long after she saw Eugene coming towards her, with a drooping head, and wings hanging to the ground, and she welcomed him, and put him under the feathers of her breast. Immediately after she saw Fiacra approaching, and she then removed Cornu from beneath her right wing and placed him under her left, and put Fiacra beneath her right wing, where Cornu had been before. She then settled her feathers about them, and said:-- "Severe, my dear brothers, as you have found the last night, you must yet see many more as bad." The children of Lir continued for a long time in the same condition on the Sruih na Maoile, until one night they suffered so much from the cold and wind and snow, that nothing they had hitherto felt was comparable to it; which made Fingula utter the following words:-- Hard is our life and sharp with ill, My brethren dear; The snow so thick, the wind so chill, The night so drear. We strive to keep Sad concert in our songs of pain, But the wild deep, Relentless, mars the rising strain. Vainly we soothe our aching hearts With converse sweet, Wave after wave, high heaving, parts Our union meet. Ah, doom severe! Harsh was our mother's vengeful will, Ah, brethren dear, Hard is our life, and sharp with ill. They remained for a year on the Sea of Moyle, when one night, as they were on the Rock of the Seals, the waters congealed around them with the cold; and as they lay on the rock, their feet and wings were frozen to it, so that they could not move a limb. When at length, after using what strength remained in their bodies, they succeeded in getting free, the skin of their feet, and the innermost down of their breasts, and the quills of their wings, remained clinging to the icy crag. "Woe to the children of Lir!" said Fingula, "mournful is our fate to-night, for when the salt water pierces into our wounds, we shall be pained to death"; and she sung these lines:-- Sad is our hap this mournful night, With mangled feet and plumage bleeding; Our wings no more sustain our flight, Woe comes to linked woe succeeding. Ah, cruel was our step-dame's mind, When hard to nature's sweet emotion, She sent us here 'mid wave and wind, To freeze on Moyle's relentless ocean. The wild sea-foam that strews the shore, The weeds those briny waves engender, For past delights are all our store, Though fostered once in regal splendor. Rise, sister of three brethren dear, Let custom dull the edge of anguish, In hollow rock or cavern drear, By doom unrighteous, bound to languish. Leaving the Rock of the Seals, they alighted again on the waters of Moyle, where the sharp brine pierced them keenly, although they strove to keep their feet under their wings as closely as they could. They continued to suffer thus, until their feathers grew, and the wounds of their feet were healed. They used frequently to go as near the shore as they could, on that part of the Irish coast which looks towards Scotland, and every night they came together to Moyle, which was their constant place of rest. One day as they drew nigh the shore of Bama, to the north, they saw a number of chariots and horsemen, splendidly arrayed, with horses richly caparisoned, approaching from the west. "Do you observe that brilliant company, you sons of Lir?" said Fingula. "We know not who they are," replied her brethren, "but they seem to be Irish; whether of the Sons of Mile, or the Tuatha Danaans, it is impossible for us to conjecture." They drew close to the shore, in order to observe more accurately. When the horsemen saw them coming, they hastened towards them, until they came within speaking distance. The persons of note who were amongst them were Aodh Aithiosatch, or Merry Hugh, and Feargus Fithcall (of the Complete Armor), the two sons of Bogh Dearg the Monarch, and the third part of his bodyguard. The children of Lir inquired how the Tuatha Danaans were, and especially Lir and Bogh Dearg, with their friends and dependants. "They are all well in their respective homes," replied the horsemen. "At present, it is true, they are in your father's palace, partaking of a splendid banquet, in health and joy, knowing no other want than that of your absence, and their ignorance of your place of abode, since you left the Lake of the Speckled Oak." "Evil has been our life since then," said Fingula, "for neither we nor any other creature, that we have heard of, ever suffered so much as we have done, since we came to the waters of Moyle"; and she uttered the following words:-- We four are well, Though in keen want and sombre grief we dwell. Happy are they Who sit in Lir's bright hall, and share his banquet gay. Rich food and wine For them in sparkling gold and silver shine; While far away His children shiver in the hungry spray! We, who of yore On dainties fared, and silken garments wore, Now all our fare, Cold sand, and bitter brine, for wax and honey rare; Our softest bed, The crag that o'er those surges lifts its head; Oft have we laid Our limbs on beds of tenderest down arrayed. Now must we lie, On Moyle's rough wave, with plumage seldom dry; A pageant rare Oft bore us to our grandsire's palace fair. Ah, mournful change! Now with faint wings these dreary shores I range. O'er Moyle's dark tide, Plume touching plume, we wander side by side; Sharing no more The joys that cheered our happy hearts of yore; The welcome mild, That on our grandsire's kingly features smiled; Lir's counsel meet, And fond paternal kiss, that made the morning sweet. The horsemen returned soon after to the house of Lir, and told the principal men of the Tuatha Danaans where they had seen the birds, and the dialogue they had held together. "We cannot assist them," they replied, "but we are well pleased to hear that they live, for they will be restored to their former shape, after a long time has elapsed." The children of Lir, meantime, returned northwards to the Sea of Moyle, where they remained until their time in that place had expired. Then Fingula spoke to her brothers, and said:-- "It is time for us to depart from hence, for the period appointed for us to remain here is at an end"; and she added these verses:-- At length we leave this cheerless shore, Unblest by summer's sunshine splendid; Its storm for us shall howl no more, Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended. Three hundred sunless summers past, We leave at length this loveless billow; Where oft we felt the icy blast, And made the shelving crag our pillow. Still on our lingering night of pain, Far distant beams the dawn of gladness; Light ease beside the western main Awaits our long accustomed sadness. Long must we haunt that billowy shore, Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid, But here our numbered years are o'er, Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended. After that time the children of Lir left the Sea of Moyle, and flew until they came to the most westerly part of the ocean. They were there for a long time, suffering all kinds of hardship, until they happened to see a man, a tiller of the ground, who used often to watch them when they came near the shore, and took great pleasure in listening to their music. He told the people on the coast of what he had seen, and spread the tidings of the prodigy far and near. However, the same tale remains to be repeated, for the children of Lir never suffered so much before or after as they did on that very night, after the husbandman had seen them; the frost was so keen, and the snow coming so thick upon the wind. The waters all congealed into ice, so that the woods and the sea were of one color. Their feet stuck to the ground, leaving them unable to move, and they began to utter the most lamentable cries, while Fingula comforted, and strove to persuade them not to grieve, but in vain; and she repeated these lines:-- Sad are my suffering brethren's piercing cries, This dreary night! Sharp drives the snow shower, o'er the moonless skies, With ceaseless flight! Where'er they search the frost-bound ocean o'er, On solid ice their thirsty beaks are ringing, Nor on the wintry shore Fresh water laves their plumes, nor bubbling fount is springing. O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coast Their being gave, And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host, Through the deep wave! Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes, Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending, In thy great might arise, And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending. "Brothers," said Fingula, "confide in Him who made heaven, and the elements, the earth with all its fruit, and the sea with all its wonders, and you will find comfort and relief." "We do confide in him," they answered. "And I confide with you," said Fingula, "in the only being who is full of knowledge and of pity." They remained on the Oraas Domhnan (Deep Seas) until their time was fulfilled, when Fingula said:-- "It is time for us to go to Fioncha, where Lir and his people dwell, and our people also." "We are well content to do so," replied they; and all proceeded together somewhat joyfully, until they came to Fioncha. They found the place where their father's palace had stood, and all around it, without either house or inhabitants, but everything looking dreary and dull. They saw smoke at a distance, and the four came towards it, and uttered three mournful cries, and Fingula repeated these words:-- A mournful wonder is this place to me, Which once I knew so well! Not even the trace of that loved home I see, Where Lir was wont to dwell. Nor hound, nor steed, nor lord nor lady bright, Nor welcome spoken! Since I have lived to see this mournful sight, My heart is broken. This was not in our father's time of old, A loveless, lightless waste, Without a cup the sparkling wine to hold, Or princely guest to taste. The home where oft we hailed each joyous morn Is bleak and lonely! And nothing left to us, its heirs forlorn, Save memory only. Now do I know the deep devouring grave Holds all who once were dear! Sad was our life on Moyle's tempestuous wave, But keener grief is here. Low rustling grass, and winds that sadly blow Through dry leaves creeping! And he who should his cherished darlings know, Forever sleeping! The children of Lir remained in the place where their father and their ancestors had lived, and where they had themselves been nursed and educated, and late at night they began to sing most melodious music. In the morning they took wing and flew until they came to Inis Gluaire Breanain, and they began to sing there; so that all the birds of the country that could swim came to that place, which was called Lochan na Heanlaithe (or the Lake of the Birds). They continued in that condition for a long time, until the Christian doctrine was preached in those countries, when St. Patrick came to Ireland, and St. Macaomh Og came to Inis Gluaire Breanain. The first night he came there the children of Lir heard the sound of the bell ringing near them, and were greatly rejoiced. They hastened towards the place from whence they heard the bells, and the three sons of Lir made such speed that they left Fingula by herself. "What is the matter with you, dear brethren?" said Fingula. "We cannot tell," they replied, "we know not how to account for the heavenly music we have heard." "I will explain it to you," said she; "that is the bell of Macaomh Og, and it is by him you shall be released from your pain and trouble, and you shall be comforted"; and she said these lines:-- List, list to the sound of the anchoret's bell, Rise, children of Lir, from the wave where ye dwell, Uplift your glad wings and exult as ye hear, And give thanks, for the hour of your freedom is near. He merits our duty, the Mighty to save From the rock and the surge, from the storm and the wave. Who clings to his doctrine with constant endeavor, His grief shall be turned into glory forever. Past moments of anguish, forever farewell! List, children of Lir, to the sound of the bell. The children of Lir were listening to the music of the bell until the saint had finished his prayers. "Let us now," said Fingula, "sing our own music to the great Ruler of the heavens and the earth"; and they sung the most melodious strains of praise and adoration. Macaomh Og was listening, and in the morning early he came to the Lake of the Birds. Coming close to the shore, he asked them, were they the children of Lir? "We are, indeed," they answered. "I am most thankful to hear it," said he, "for it was to relieve you that I was sent to this island, rather than to any other part of Ireland." On hearing these words the children of Lir came to the shore, and depended on his word. He took them down to his residence, where they remained listening to his instructions and joining in his devotions day after day. Macaomh Og sent for a craftsman and desired him to make two silver chains, which he accordingly did. One of them he put between Eugene and Fingula, and the other between Cornu and Fiacra. The king who governed Conact at that time was named Lairgnean, the son of Colman (the same of whom Fingula had spoken to her father on the Lake of the Speckled Oak), and his queen's name was Deocha, the daughter of Ingri, son of Black Hugh. Deocha came to hear of the wonderful birds, and, being seized with a violent desire of possessing them, requested the king to procure them for her. He replied that he could never persuade himself to ask Macaomh Og to give them up. Deocha, enraged at his refusal, declared that she never again would spend a night within the palace of Glairgnea, as the king's residence was called, unless she got the swans; and, leaving the palace, she travelled to Kill da Luadh (now called Killaloe) and took up her abode at her own home. When Lairgnean found her so resolute, he sent a messenger three several times for the birds, but could not obtain them. Then he came himself to Macaomh Og, and asked him if it were true he had refused his messengers. "It is true," answered Macaomh Og. "Then," said the king, "it is true, likewise, that I will take them with me whether you are willing or otherwise." As he said this he rushed toward the altar near which they stood, and seized the two chains which coupled them together. No sooner had he done so, than the swans lost their plumage, their beautiful feathers disappeared, and the three sons of Lir appeared three withered old men, with their bones seeming to project through their skin; while Fingula, instead of the graceful swan that sung such enchanting strains, became an old shrivelled hag, fleshless and bloodless. The King let fall the chains, and returned home, while Macaomh Og uttered many lamentations after the birds, and pronounced a malediction on Lairgnean. Fingula then said:-- "Come hither, holy father, and give us baptism, for we are as much concerned at parting with you as you in parting with us. You are to bury us together in this manner. Place Cornu and Fiacra at my back, and place Eugene before me"; and she again said, "Baptize us, holy father, and make us happy." After that they departed this life, and the children of Lir were buried by Macaomh Og as Fingula had desired. He raised the earth in the form of a tomb, and placed a stone over them, on which he carved their names in the Ogham character, and wept bitterly above their grave. It is thought that their souls went to heaven. For Lairgnean, who was the immediate cause of their death, Macaomh Og predicted his fate in the following lines:-- Ill shoot of Colman's royal line, The malison of heaven is thine, The grief which thou hast caused to mine, Thine own cold heart shall feel, Thou whose unholy zeal Hath left me on this isle forlorn, My cherished darlings' loss to mourn. And she whose soul, in evil strong, Hath prompted this unfeeling wrong, To early dust consigned, shall long Her fruitless rapine wail, A shivering spectre pale! The malison of heaven is thine, Ill shoot of Colman's royal line! Not long after, Lairgnean and his wife died a sudden death, according to the prediction of Macaomh Og, which concludes the history of the Swans of Lir. [Illustration] A NIGHT IN A WORKHOUSE. BY JAMES GREENWOOD. At about nine o'clock on the evening of Monday the --th instant, a neat but unpretentious carriage might have been seen turning cautiously from the Kennington Road into Princes Road, Lambeth. The curtains were closely drawn, and the coachman wore an unusually responsible air. Approaching a public house, which retreated a little from the street, he pulled up; but not so close that the lights should fall upon the carriage door, not so distant as to unsettle the mind of any one who chose to imagine that he had halted to drink beer before proceeding to call for the children at a juvenile party. He did not dismount, nor did any one alight in the usual way; but any keen observer who happened to watch his intelligent countenance might have seen a furtive glance directed to the wrong door,--that is to say, to the door of the carriage which opened into the dark and muddy road. From that door emerged a sly and ruffianly figure, marked with every sign of squalor. He was dressed in what had once been a snuff-brown coat, but which had faded to the hue of bricks imperfectly baked. It was not strictly a ragged coat, though it had lost its cuffs,--a bereavement which obliged the wearer's arms to project through the sleeves two long inelegant inches. The coat altogether was too small, and was only made to meet over the chest by means of a bit of twine. This wretched garment was surmounted by a "bird's-eye" pocket-handkerchief of cotton, wisped about the throat hangman fashion; above all was a battered billy-cock hat, with a dissolute drooping brim. Between the neckerchief and the lowering brim of the hat appeared part of a face, unshaven, and not scrupulously clean. The man's hands were plunged into his pockets, and he shuffled hastily along in boots, which were the boots of a tramp indifferent to miry ways. In a moment he was out of sight, and the brougham, after waiting a little while, turned about and comfortably departed. This mysterious figure was that of the present writer. He was bound for Lambeth Workhouse, there to learn by actual experience how casual paupers are lodged and fed, and what the "casual" is like, and what the porter who admits him, and the master who rules over him; and how the night passes with the outcasts whom we have all seen crowding about workhouse doors on cold and rainy nights. Much has been said on the subject,--on behalf of the paupers, on behalf of the officials; but nothing by any one who, with no motive but to learn and make known the truth, had ventured the experiment of passing a night in a workhouse and trying what it actually is to be a "casual." The day had been windy and chill,--the night was cold; and therefore I fully expected to begin my experiences among a dozen of ragged wretches squatting about the steps and waiting for admission. But my only companion at the door was a decently dressed woman, whom, as I afterwards learnt, they declined to admit until she had recovered from a fit of intoxication from which she had the misfortune to be still suffering. I lifted the big knocker and knocked; the door was promptly opened, and I entered. Just within, a comfortable-looking clerk sat at a comfortable desk, ledger before him. Indeed, the spacious hall in every way was as comfortable as cleanliness and great mats and plenty of gaslight could make it. "What do you want?" asked the man who opened the door. "I want a lodging." "Go and stand before the desk," said the porter; and I obeyed. "You are late," said the clerk. "Am I, sir?" "Yes. If you come in you'll have a bath, and you'll have to sleep in the shed." "Very well, sir." "What's your name?" "Joshua Mason, sir." "What are you?" "An engraver." (This taradiddle I invented to account for the look of my hands.) "Where did you sleep last night?" "Hammersmith," I answered--as I hope to be forgiven. "How many times have you been here?" "Never before, sir." "Where do you mean to go to when you are turned out in the morning?" "Back to Hammersmith, sir." These humble answers being entered in a book, the clerk called to the porter, saying, "Take him through. You may as well take his bread with you." Near the clerk stood a basket containing some pieces of bread of equal size. Taking one of these, and unhitching a bunch of keys from the wall, the porter led me through some passages all so scrupulously clean that my most serious misgivings were laid to rest. Then we passed into a dismal yard. Crossing this, my guide led me to a door, calling out, "Hillo! Daddy, I've brought you another!" Whereupon Daddy opened unto us, and let a little of his gaslight stream into the dark where we stood. "Come in," said Daddy, very hospitably. "There's enough of you to-night, anyhow! What made you so late?" "I didn't like to come in earlier." "Ah! that's a pity, now, because you've missed your skilley (gruel). It's the first night of skilley, don't you know, under the new Act?" "Just like my luck!" I muttered dolefully. The porter went his way, and I followed Daddy into another apartment, where were ranged three great baths, each one containing a liquid so disgustingly like weak mutton broth that my worst apprehensions crowded back. "Come on, there's a dry place to stand on up at this end," said Daddy, kindly. "Take off your clothes, tie 'em up in your hank'sher, and I'll lock 'em up till the morning." Accordingly I took off my coat and waistcoat, and was about to tie them together, when Daddy cried, "That ain't enough; I mean everything." "Not my shirt, sir, I suppose?" "Yes, shirt and all; but there, I'll lend you a shirt," said Daddy. "Whatever you take in of your own will be nailed, you know. You might take in your boots, though,--they'd be handy if you happened to want to leave the shed for anything; but don't blame me if you lose 'em." With a fortitude for which I hope some day to be rewarded, I made up my bundle (boots and all), and the moment Daddy's face was turned away shut my eyes and plunged desperately into the mutton broth. I wish from the bottom of my heart my courage had been less hasty, for hearing the splash, Daddy looked round and said, "Lor, now! there was no occasion for that; you look a clean and decent sort of man. It's them filthy beggars" (only he used a word more specific than "filthy") "that want washing. Don't use that towel: here's a clean one! That's the sort! and now here's your shirt" (handing me a blue striped one from a heap), "and here's your ticket. No. 34 you are, and a ticket to match is tied to your bundle. Mind you don't lose it. They'll nail it from you if they get a chance. Put it under your head. This is your rug: take it with you." "Where am I to sleep, please, sir?" "I'll show you." And so he did. With no other rag but the checked shirt to cover me, and with my rug over my shoulder, he accompanied me to the door at which I entered, and, opening it, kept me standing with naked feet on the stone threshold, full in the draught of the frosty air, while he pointed out the way I should go. It was not a long way, but I would have given much not to have trodden it. It was open as the highway,--with flag-stones below and the stars overhead, and, as I said before, and cannot help saying again, a frosty wind was blowing. "Straight across," said Daddy, "to where you see the light shining through. Go in there, and turn to the left, and you'll find the beds in a heap. Take one of 'em and make yourself comfortable." And straight across I went, my naked feet seeming to cling to the stones as though they were burning hot instead of icy cold (they had just stepped out of a bath you should remember), till I reached the space through which the light was shining, and I entered in. No language with which I am acquainted is capable of conveying an adequate conception of the spectacle I then encountered. Imagine a space of about thirty feet by thirty feet enclosed on three sides by a dingy whitewashed wall, and roofed with naked tiles, which were furred with the damp and filth that reeked within. As for the fourth side of the shed, it was boarded in for (say) a third of its breadth; the remaining space being hung with flimsy canvas, in which was a gap two feet wide at top, widening to at least four feet at bottom. This far too airy shed was paved with stone, the flags so thickly incrusted with filth that I mistook it first for a floor of natural earth. Extending from one end of my bedroom to the other, in three rows, were certain iron "cranks" (of which I subsequently learnt the use), with their many arms raised in various attitudes, as the stiffened arms of men are on a battle-field. My bedfellows lay among the cranks, distributed over the flag-stones in a double row, on narrow bags scantily stuffed with hay. At one glance my appalled vision took in thirty of them,--thirty men and boys stretched upon shallow pallets, with but only six inches of comfortable hay between them and the stony floor. These beds were placed close together, every occupant being provided with a rug like that which I was fain to hug across my shoulders. In not a few cases two gentlemen had clubbed beds and rugs and slept together. In one case (to be further mentioned presently) four gentlemen had so clubbed together. Many of my fellow-casuals were awake,--others asleep or pretending to sleep; and shocking as were the waking ones to look upon, they were quite pleasant when compared with the sleepers. For this reason, the practised and well-seasoned casual seems to have a peculiar way of putting himself to bed. He rolls himself in his rug, tucking himself in, head and feet, so that he is completely enveloped; and, lying quite still on his pallet, he looks precisely like a corpse covered because of its hideousness. Some were stretched out at full length; some lay nose and knees together; some with an arm or a leg showing crooked through the coverlet. It was like the result of a railway accident; these ghastly figures were awaiting the coroner. From the moral point of view, however, the wakeful ones were more dreadful still. Tousled, dirty, villanous, they squatted up in their beds, and smoked foul pipes, and sang snatches of horrible songs, and bandied jokes so obscene as to be absolutely appalling. Eight or ten were so enjoying themselves,--the majority with the check shirt on, and the frowzy rug pulled about their legs; but two or three wore no shirts at all, squatting naked to the waist, their bodies fully exposed in the light of the single flaring jet of gas fixed high up on the wall. My entrance excited very little attention. There was a horse-pail three parts full of water standing by a post in the middle of the shed, with a little tin pot beside it. Addressing me as "old pal," one of the naked ruffians begged me to "hand him a swig," as he was "werry nigh garspin." Such an appeal of course no "old pal" could withstand, and I gave him a potful of water. He showed himself grateful for the attention. "I should lay over there, if I was you," he said, pointing to the left side of the shed; "it's more out of the wind than this 'ere side is." I took the good-natured advice, and (by this time shivering with cold) stepped over the stones to where the beds of straw-bags were heaped, and dragged one of them to the spot suggested by my naked comrade. But I had no more idea of how to arrange it than of making an apple-pudding; and a certain little discovery added much to my embarrassment. In the middle of the bed I had selected was a stain of blood bigger than a man's hand! I did not know what to do now. To lie on such a horrid thing seemed impossible; yet to carry back the bed and exchange it for another might betray a degree of fastidiousness repugnant to the feelings of my fellow-lodgers, and possibly excite suspicion that I was not what I seemed. Just in the nick of time in came that good man Daddy. "What! not pitched yet?" he exclaimed; "here, I'll show you. Hallo! somebody's been a bleedin'! Never mind; let's turn him over. There you are, you see! Now lay down, and cover your rug over you." There was no help for it. It was too late to go back. Down I lay and spread the rug over me. I should have mentioned that I brought in with me a cotton handkerchief, and this I tied round my head by way of a nightcap; but not daring to pull the rug as high as my face. Before I could in any way settle my mind to reflection, in came Daddy once more to do me a further kindness and point out a stupid blunder I had committed. "Why, you are a rummy chap!" said Daddy. "You forgot your bread! Lay hold. And look here, I've brought you another rug; it's perishing cold to-night." So saying he spread the rug over my legs and went away. I was very thankful for the extra covering, but I was in a dilemma about the bread. I couldn't possibly eat it; what then was to be done with it? I broke it, however, and in view of such of the company as might happen to be looking, made a ferocious bite at a bit as large as a bean, and munched violently. By good luck, however, I presently got half-way over my difficulty very neatly. Just behind me, so close indeed that their feet came within half a yard of my head, three lads were sleeping together. "Did you hear that, Punch?" one of them asked. "'Ear what?" answered Punch, sleepy and snappish. "Why, a cove forgot his toke! Gordstruth! you wouldn't ketch me a forgettin' mine." "You may have half of it, old pal, if you're hungry", I observed, leaning upon my elbows. "Chuck it here, good luck to yer!" replied my young friend, starting up with an eager clap of his dirty hands. I "chucked it here," and slipping the other half under the side of my bed, lay my head on my folded arms. It was about half past nine when, having made myself as comfortable as circumstances permitted, I closed my eyes in the desperate hope that I might fall asleep, and so escape from the horrors with which I was surrounded. "At seven to-morrow morning the bell will ring," Daddy had informed me, "and then you will give up your ticket and get back your bundle." Between that time and the present full nine long hours had to wear away. But I was speedily convinced that, at least for the present, sleep was impossible. The young fellow (one of the three who lay in one bed, with their feet to my head) whom my bread had refreshed, presently swore with frightful imprecations that he was now going to have a smoke; and immediately put his threat into execution. Thereupon his bedfellows sat up and lit their pipes too. But O, if they had only smoked,--if they had not taken such an unfortunate fancy to spit at the leg of a crank, distant a few inches from my head,--how much misery and apprehension would have been spared me. To make matters worse, they united with this American practice an Eastern one; as they smoked they related little autobiographical anecdotes,--so abominable that three or four decent men who lay at the farther end of the shed were so provoked that they threatened, unless the talk abated in filthiness, to get up and stop it by main force. Instantly the voice of every blackguard in the room was raised against the decent ones. They were accused of loathsome afflictions, stigmatized "as fighting men out of work" (which must be something very humiliating, I suppose), and invited to "a round" by boys young enough to be their grandsons. For several minutes there was such a storm of oaths, threats, and taunts,--such a deluge of foul words raged in the room,--that I could not help thinking of the fate of Sodom; as, indeed, I did several times during the night. Little by little the riot died out, without any the slightest interference on the part of the officers. Soon afterwards the ruffian majority was strengthened by the arrival of a lanky boy of about fifteen, who evidently, recognized many acquaintances, and was recognized by them as "Kay," or perhaps I should write it "K." He was a very remarkable-looking lad, and his appearance pleased me much. Short as his hair was cropped, it still looked soft and silky; he had large blue eyes, set wide apart, and a mouth that would have been faultless but for its great width; and his voice was as soft and sweet as any woman's. Lightly as a woman, too, he picked his way over the stones towards the place where the beds lay, carefully hugging his cap beneath his arm. "What cheer, Kay?" "Out again, then, old son!" "What yer got in yer cap, Kay?" cried his friends; to which the sweet voice replied, "Who'll give me a part of his doss (bed)? ---- my ---- eyes and limbs if I ain't perishin'! Who'll let me turn in with him for half my toke (bread)?" I feared how it would be! The hungry young fellow who had so readily availed himself of half my "toke" snapped at Kay's offer, and after a little rearrangement and bed-making, four young fellows instead of three reposed upon the hay-bags at my head. "You was too late for skilley, Kay. There's skilley now, nights as well as mornin's." "Don't you tell no bleeding lies," Kay answered, incredulously. "Blind me, it's true. Ain't it, Punch?" "Right you are!" said Punch, "and spoons to eat it with, that's more! There used to be spoons at all the houses, one time. Poplar used to have 'em; but one at a time they was all nicked, don't you know." ("Nicked" means "stolen," obviously.) "Well, I don't want no skilley, leastways, not to-night," said Kay. "I've had some rum. Two glasses of it; and a blow out of puddin',--regler Christmas plum-puddin'. You don't know the cove as give it me, but, thinks I this mornin' when I come out, blessed if I don't go and see my old chum. Lordstruth! he was struck! 'Come along,' he ses, 'I saved you some puddin' from Christmas.' 'Whereabouts is it?' I ses. 'In that box under my bed,' he ses, and he forks it out. That's the sort of pal to have! And he stood a quarten, and half a ounce of hard-up (tobacco). That wasn't all, neither; when I come away, ses he, 'How about your breakfus?' 'O, I shall do,' ses I. 'You take some of my bread and butter,' he ses, and he cuts me off four chunks buttered thick. I eat two on 'em comin' along." "What's in your cap, Kay?" repeated the devourer of "toke." "Them other two slices," said Kay; generously adding, "There, share 'em amongst yer, and somebody give us a whiff of 'bacca." Kay showed himself a pleasant companion,--what in a higher grade of society is called "quite an acquisition." He told stories of thieves and thieving, and of a certain "silver cup" he had been "put up to," and that he meant to nick it afore the end of the week, if he got seven stretch (? seven years) for it. The cup was worth ten quid (? pounds), and he knew where to melt it within ten minutes of nicking it. He made this statement without any moderation of his sweet voice; and the others received it as serious fact. Nor was there any affectation of secrecy in another gentleman, who announced, with great applause, that he had stolen a towel from the bath-room; "And s' help me, it's as good as new; never been washed mor'n once!" "Tell us a 'rummy' story, Kay," said somebody; and Kay did. He told stories of so "rummy" a character that the decent men at the farther end of the room (some of whom had their own little boys sleeping with them) must have lain in a sweat of horror as they listened. Indeed, when Kay broke into a "rummy" song with a roaring chorus, one of the decent men rose in his bed and swore that he would smash Kay's head if he didn't desist. But Kay sang on till he and his admirers were tired of the entertainment. "Now," said he, "let's have a swearing club! you'll all be in it?" The principle of this game seemed to rest on the impossibility of either of the young gentlemen making half a dozen observations without introducing a blasphemous or obscene word; and either the basis is a very sound one, or for the sake of keeping the "club" alive the members purposely made slips. The penalty for "swearing" was a punch on any part of the body, except a few which the club rules protected. The game was highly successful. Warming with the sport, and indifferent to punches, the members vied with each other in audacity; and in a few minutes Bedlam in its prime could scarcely have produced such a spectacle as was to be seen on the beds behind me. One rule of the club was that any word to be found in the Bible might be used with impunity, and if one member "punched" another for using such a word, the error was to be visited upon him with a double punching all round. This naturally led to much argument; for in vindicating the Bible as his authority, a member became sometimes so much heated as to launch into a flood of "real swearing," which brought the fists of the club upon his naked carcass as quick as hail. These and other pastimes beguiled the time until, to my delight, the church chimes audibly tolled twelve. After this the noise gradually subsided, and it seemed as though everybody was going to sleep at last. I should have mentioned that during the story-telling and song-singing a few "casuals" had dropped in, but they were not _habitués_, and cuddled down with their rugs over their heads without a word to any one. In a little while all was quiet, save for the flapping of the canvas curtain in the night breeze, the snoring, and the horrible, indescribable sound of impatient hands scratching skins that itch. There was another sound of very frequent occurrence, and that was the clanking of the tin pannikin against the water-pail. Whether it is in the nature of workhouse bread or skilley to provoke thirst is more than my limited experience entitles me to say, but it may be truthfully asserted that once at least in the course of five minutes might be heard a rustling of straw, pattering of feet, and then the noise of water dipping, and then was to be seen at the pail the figure of a man (sometimes stark naked) gulping down the icy water as he stood upon the icy stones. And here I may remark that I can furnish no solution to this mystery of the shirt. I only know that some of my comrades were provided with a shirt, and that to some the luxury was denied. I may say this, however, that none of the little boys were allowed one. Nearly one o'clock. Still quiet and no fresh arrival for an hour or more. Then suddenly a loud noise of hobnailed boots kicked at a wooden gate, and soon after a tramping of feet and a rapping at Daddy's door, which, it will be remembered, was only separated from our bedroom by an open paved court. "Hallo!" cried Daddy. "Here's some more of 'em for you,--ten of 'em!" answered the porter, whose voice I recognized at once. "They'll have to find beds, then," Daddy grumbled, as he opened his door. "I don't believe there are four beds empty. They must sleep double, or something." This was terrible news for me. Bad enough, in all conscience, was it to lie as I was lying; but the prospect of sharing my straw with some dirty scoundrel of the Kay breed was altogether unendurable. Perhaps, however, they were not dirty scoundrels, but peaceable and decent men, like those in the farther corner. Alas for my hopes! In the space of five minutes in they came at the rent in the canvas,--great hulking ruffians, some with rugs and nothing else, and some with shirts and nothing else, and all madly swearing because, coming in after eleven o'clock, there was no "toke" for them. As soon as these wrathful men had advanced to the middle of the shed they made the discovery that there was an insufficient number of beds,--only three, indeed, for ten competitors. "Where's the beds? D' ye hear, Daddy? You blessed, truth-telling old person, where's the beds?" "You'll find 'em. Some of 'em is lying on two, or got 'em as pillows. You'll find 'em." With a sudden rush our new friends plunged among the sleepers, trampling over them, cursing their eyes and limbs, dragging away their rugs; and if by chance they found some poor wretch who had been tempted to take two beds (or bags) instead of one, they coolly hauled him out and took possession. There was no denying them and no use in remonstrating. They evidently knew that they were at liberty to do just as they liked, and they took full advantage of the privilege. One of them came up to me, and shouting, "I want that, you ----," snatched at my "birdseye" nightcap and carried it off. There was a bed close to mine which contained only one occupant, and into this one of the new-comers slipped without a word of warning, driving its lawful owner against the wall to make room. Then he sat up in bed for a moment, savagely venting his disappointment as to "toke," and declaring that never before in his life had he felt the need of it so much. This was my opportunity. Slipping my hand under my bed, I withdrew that judiciously hoarded piece of bread and respectfully offered it to him. He snapped at it with thanks. By the time the churches were chiming two matters had once more adjusted themselves, and silence reigned, to be disturbed only by drinkers at the pail, or such as, otherwise prompted, stalked into the open yard. Kay, for one, visited it. I mention this unhappy young wretch particularly, because he went out without a single rag to his back. I looked out at the rent in the canvas, and saw the frosty moon shining on him. When he returned, and crept down between Punch and another, he muttered to himself, "Warm again! O my G-d! warm again!" I hope, Mr. Editor, that you will not think me too prodigal of these reminiscences, and that your readers will understand that, if I write rather boldly, it is not done as a matter of taste. To me it seems quite worth while to relate with tolerable accuracy every particular of an adventure which you persuaded me ("ah! woful when!") to undertake for the public good. Whether there is a rule which closes the casual wards after a certain hour I do not know; but before one o'clock our number was made up, the last-comer signalizing his appearance with a grotesque _pas seul_. His rug over his shoulders, he waltzed into the shed, waving his hands, and singing in an affected voice, as he sidled along,-- "I like to be a swell, a-roaming down Pall-Mall, Or anywhere, I don't much care, so I can be a swell,"-- a couplet which had an intensely comical effect. This gentleman had just come from a pantomime (where he had learnt his song, probably). Too poor to pay for a lodging, he could only muster means for a seat in the gallery of "the Vic," where he was well entertained, judging from the flattering manner in which he spoke of the clown. The columbine was less fortunate in his opinion. "She's werry dickey!--ain't got what I call 'move' about her." However, the wretched young woman was respited now from the scourge of his criticism; for the critic and his listeners were fast asleep; and yet I doubt whether any one of the company slept very soundly. Every moment some one shifted uneasily; and as the night wore on the silence was more and more irritated by the sound of coughing. This was one of the most distressing things in the whole adventure. The conversation was horrible, the tales that were told more horrible still, and worse than either (though not by any means the most infamous things to be heard,--I dare not even hint at them) was that song, with its bestial chorus shouted from a dozen throats; but at any rate they kept the blood warm with constant hot flushes of anger; while as for the coughing, to lie on the flagstones in what was nothing better than an open shed, and listen to that, hour after hour, chilled one's very heart with pity. Every variety of cough that ever I heard was to be heard there: the hollow cough; the short cough; the hysterical cough; the bark that comes at regular intervals, like the quarter-chime of a clock, as if to mark off the progress of decay; coughing from vast hollow chests, coughing from little narrow ones,--now one, now another, now two or three together, and then a minute's interval of silence in which to think of it all and wonder who would begin next. One of the young reprobates above me coughed so grotesquely, like the chopping of wood, that I named him in my mind the Woodcutter. Now and then I found myself coughing too, which may have added just a little to the poignant distress these awfully constant and various sounds occasioned me. They were good in one way; they made one forget what wretches they were who, to all appearances, were so rapidly "chopping" their way to a pauper's graveyard. I did not care about the more matured ruffians so much; but though the youngest, the boys like Kay, were unquestionably among the most infamous of my comrades, to hear what cold and hunger and vice had done for them at fifteen was almost enough to make a man cry; and there were boys there even younger than these. At half past two, every one being asleep, or at least lying still, Daddy came in and counted us,--one, two, three, four, and so on, in a whisper. Then, finding the pail empty (it was nearly full at half past nine, when I entered), he considerately went and refilled it, and even took much trouble in searching for the tin pot which served as a drinking-cup, and which the last-comer had playfully thrown to the farther end of the shed. I ought to have mentioned that the pail stood close to my head; so that I had peculiar opportunities of study as one after another of my comrades came to the fountain to drink; just as the brutes do in those books of African travel. The pail refilled, Daddy returned, and was seen no more till morning. It still wanted four hours and a half to seven o'clock,--the hour of rising,--and never before in my life did time appear to creep so slowly. I could hear the chimes of a parish church and of the Parliament Houses, as well as those of a wretched, tinkling Dutch clock somewhere on the premises. The parish church was the first to announce the hour (an act of kindness I feel bound to acknowledge), Westminster came next, the lazy Dutchman declining his consent to the time o' day till fully sixty seconds afterwards. And I declare I thought that difference of sixty seconds an injury,--if the officers of the house took their time from the Dutchman. It may seem a trifle, but a minute is something when a man is lying on a cold flagstone, and the wind of a winter night is blowing in your hair. Three o'clock, four o'clock struck, and still there was nothing to beguile the time, but observation, under the one flaring gaslight, of the little heaps of outcast humanity strewn about the floor; and after a while, I find, one may even become accustomed to the sight of one's fellow-creatures lying around you like covered corpses in a railway shed. For most of the company were now bundled under the rugs in the ghastly way I have already described,--though here and there a cropped head appeared, surmounted by a billy-cock like my own or by a greasy cloth cap. Five o'clock, six o'clock chimed, and then I had news--most welcome--of the world without, and of the real beginning of day. Half a dozen factory bells announced that it was time for workingmen to go to labor; but my companions were not workingmen, and so snored on. Out through the gap in the canvas the stars were still to be seen shining on the black sky; but that did not alter the fact that it was six o'clock in the morning. I snapped my fingers at the Dutchman, with his sixty seconds slow, for in another hour I fondly hoped to be relieved from duty. A little while, and doors were heard to open and shut; yet a little while, and the voice of Daddy was audible in conversation with another early bird; and then I distinctly caught the word "bundles." Blessed sound! I longed for my bundle,--for my pleasing brown coat, for the warm--if unsightly--"jersey," which I adopted as a judicious substitute for a waistcoat,--for my corduroys and liberty. "Clang!" went the workhouse clock. "Now, then, wake 'em up!" cried Daddy. I was already up,--sitting up, that is,--being anxious to witness the resurrection of the ghastly figures rolled in their rugs. But nobody but myself rose at the summons. They knew what it meant well enough, and in sleepy voices cursed the bell, and wished it in several dreadful places; but they did not move until there came in at the hole in the canvas two of the pauper inhabitants of the house, bearing bundles. "Thirty-two," "Twenty-eight!" they bawled, but not _my_ number, which was thirty-four. Neither thirty-two nor twenty-eight, however, seemed eager to accept his good fortune in being first called. They were called upon three several times before they would answer; and then they replied with a savage, "Chuck it here, can't you!" "Not before you chucks over your shirt and ticket," the bundle-holder answered; whereon "twenty-eight" sat up, and, divesting himself of his borrowed shirt, flung it with his wooden ticket; and his bundle was flung back in return. It was some time before bundle No. 34 turned up, so that I had fair opportunity to observe my neighbors. The decent men slipped into their rags as soon as they got them, but the blackguards were in no hurry. Some indulged in a morning pipe to prepare themselves for the fatigue of dressing, while others, loosening their bundles as they squatted naked, commenced an investigation for certain little animals which shall be nameless. At last my turn came, and, "chucking over" my shirt and ticket, I quickly attired myself in clothes which, ragged as they were, were cleaner than they looked. In less than two minutes I was out of the shed, and in the yard; where a few of the more decent poor fellows were crowding round a pail of water, and scrambling after something that might pass for a "wash,"--finding their own soap, as far as I could observe, and drying their faces on any bit of rag they might happen to have about them, or upon the canvas curtain of the shed. By this time it was about half past seven, and the majority of the casuals were up and dressed. I observed, however, that none of the younger boys were as yet up, and it presently appeared that there existed some rule against their dressing in the shed; for Daddy came out of the bath-room, where the bundles were deposited, and called out, "Now four boys!" and instantly four poor little wretches, some with their rugs trailing about their shoulders and some quite bare, came shivering over the stones and across the bleak yard, and were admitted to the bath-room to dress. "Now, four more boys," cried Daddy; and so on. When all were up and dressed, the boys carried the bed-rugs into Daddy's room, and the pauper inmates made a heap of the "beds," stacking them against the wall. As before mentioned, the shed served the treble purpose of bedchamber, work-room, and breakfast-room; it was impossible to get fairly at the cranks and set them going until the bedding was stowed away. Breakfast before work, however; but it was a weary while to some of us before it made its appearance. For my own part, I had little appetite, but about me were a dozen poor wretches who obviously had a very great one. They had come in overnight too late for bread, and perhaps may not have broken fast since the morning of the previous day. The decent ones suffered most. The blackguard majority were quite cheerful, smoking, swearing, and playing their pretty horse play, the prime end of which was pain or discomfiture for somebody else. One casual there was with only one leg. When he came in overnight he wore a black hat, which added a certain look of respectability to a worn suit of black. All together his clothes had been delivered up to him by Daddy; but now he was seen hopping disconsolately about the place on his crutch, for the hat was missing. He was a timid man, with a mild voice; and whenever he asked some ruffian "whether he had seen such a thing as a black hat," and got his answer, he invariably said, "Thank you," which was regarded as very amusing. At last one sidled up to him with a grin, and showing about three square inches of some fluffy substance, said, "Is this anything like wot you're lost, guv'ner?" The cripple inspected it. "That's the rim of it!" he said. "What a shame!" and hobbled off with tears in his eyes. Full three quarters of an hour of loitering and shivering, and then came the taskmaster,--a soldierly looking man over six feet high, with quick, gray eyes, in which "No trifling" appeared as distinctly as a notice against trespassing on a wayside board. He came in among us, and the gray eyes made out our number in a moment. "Out into the yard, all of you!" he cried; and we went out in a mob. There we shivered for some twenty minutes longer, and then a baker's man appeared with a great wooden tray piled up with just such slices of bread as we had received overnight. The tray was consigned to an able-bodied casual who took his place with the taskmaster at the shed door, and then in single file we re-entered the shed, each man and boy receiving a slice as he passed in. Pitying, as I suppose, my unaccustomed look, Mr. Taskmaster gave me a slice and a large piece over. The bread devoured, a clamor for "skilley" began. The rumor had got abroad that this morning, and on all future mornings, there would be skilley at breakfast, and "Skilley! skilley!" resounded through the shed. No one had hinted that it was not forthcoming, but skilley seems to be thought an extraordinary concession, and after waiting only a few minutes for it they attacked the taskmaster in the fiercest manner. They called him thief, sneak, and "crawler." Little boys blackguarded him in gutter language, and looking him in the face, consigned him to hell without flinching. He never uttered a word in reply, or showed a sign of impatience; and whenever he was obliged to speak it was quite without temper. There was a loud "hooray!" when the longed-for skilley appeared in two pails, in one of which floated a small tin saucepan, with a stick thrust into its handle, by way of a ladle. Yellow pint basins were provided for our use, and large iron spoons. "Range round the walls!" the taskmaster shouted. We obeyed with the utmost alacrity; and then what I should judge to be about three fourths of a pint of gruel was handed to each of us as we stood. I was glad to get mine, because the basin that contained it was warm and my hands were numb with cold. I tasted a spoonful, as in duty bound, and wondered more than ever at the esteem in which it was held by my _confrères_. It was a weak decoction of oatmeal and water, bitter, and without even a pinch of salt to flavor it,--that I could discover. But it was hot; and on that account, perhaps, was so highly relished that I had no difficulty in persuading one of the decent men to accept my share. It was now past eight o'clock, and, as I knew that a certain quantity of labor had to be performed by each man before he was allowed to go his way, I was anxious to begin. The labor was to be "crank" labor. The "cranks" are a series of iron bars extending across the width of the shed, penetrating through the wall, and working a flour-mill on the other side. Turning the "crank" is like turning a windlass. The task is not a severe one. Four measures of corn (bushels they were called, but that is doubtful) have to be ground every morning by the night's batch of casuals. Close up by the ceiling hangs a bell connected with the machinery; and as each measure is ground the bell rings, so that the grinders may know how they are going on. But the grinders are as lazy as obscene. We were no sooner set to work than the taskmaster left us to our own sweet will, with nothing to restrain its exercise but an occasional visit from the miller, a weakly expostulating man. Once or twice he came in and said mildly, "Now then, my men, why don't you stick to it?" and so went out again. The result of this laxity of overseeing would have disgusted me at any time, and was intensely disgusting then. At least one half the gang kept their hands from the crank whenever the miller was absent, and betook themselves to their private amusements and pursuits. Some sprawled upon the beds and smoked; some engaged themselves and their friends in tailoring; and one turned hair-cutter for the benefit of a gentleman, who, unlike Kay, had not just come out of prison. There were three tailors; two of them on the beds mending their coats, and the other operating on a recumbent friend in the rearward part of his clothing. Where the needles came from I do not know; but for thread they used a strand of the oakum (evidently easy to deal with) which the boys were picking in the corners. Other loungers strolled about with their hands in their pockets, discussing the topics of the day, and playing practical jokes on the industrious few; a favorite joke being to take a bit of rag, anoint it with grease from the crank axles, and clap it unexpectedly over somebody's eye. The consequence of all this was that the cranks went round at a very slow rate, and now and then stopped altogether. Then the miller came in; the loungers rose from their couches, the tailors ceased stitching, the smokers dropped their pipes, and every fellow was at his post. The cranks spun round furiously again, the miller's expostulation being drowned amid a shout of, "Slap bang, here we are again!" or this extemporized chorus:-- "We'll hang up the miller on a sour-apple tree, We'll hang up the miller on a sour-apple tree, We'll hang up the miller on a sour-apple tree, And then go grinding on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah," etc. By such ditties the ruffians enlivened their short spell of work. Short indeed! The miller departed, and within a minute afterward beds were reoccupied, pipes lit, and tailoring resumed. So the game continued,--the honest fellows sweating at the cranks, and anxious to get the work done and go out to look for more profitable labor, and the paupers by profession taking matters quite easy. I am convinced that had the work been properly superintended the four measures of corn might have been ground in the space of an hour and a half. As it was, when the little bell had tinkled for the fourth time, and the yard-gate was opened, and we were free to depart, the clock had struck eleven. I had seen the show; gladly I escaped into the open streets. The sun shone brightly on my ragged, disreputable figure, and showed its squalor with startling distinctness; but within all was rejoicing. A few yards, and then I was blessed with the sight of that same vehicle, waiting for me in the spot where I had parted from it fourteen weary hours before. Did you observe, Mr. Editor, with what alacrity I jumped in? I have a vivid recollection of you, sir, sitting there with an easy patience, lounging through your _Times_, and oh! so detestably clean to look at! But though I resented your collar, I was grateful for the sight of a familiar face, and for that draught of sherry which you considerately brought for me, a welcome refreshment after so many weary, waking hours of fasting. And now I have come to the end I remember many little incidents which until this moment had escaped me. I ought to have told you of two quiet elderly gentlemen who, amid all the blackguardism that went on around, held a discussion on the merits of the English language,--one of the disputants showing an especial admiration for the word "kindle,"--"fine old Saxon word as ever was coined." Then there were some childish games of "first and last letters," to vary such entertainments as that of the Swearing Club. I should also have mentioned that, on the dissolution of the Swearing Club, a game at "dumb motions" was started, which presently led to some talk concerning deaf and dumb people, and their method of conversing with each other by means of finger-signs; as well as to a little story that sounded strangely enough coming from the mouth of the most efficient member of the club. A good memory for details enables me to repeat this story almost, if not quite, exactly. "They are a rummy lot, them deaf and dumb," said the story-teller. "I was at the workhouse at Stepney when I was a young 'un, don't you know; and when I got a holiday I used to go and see my old woman as lived in the Borough. Well, one day a woman as was in the house ses to me, ses she, 'Don't you go past the Deaf and Dumb School as you goes home?' So I ses, 'Yes.' So ses she, 'Would you mind callin' there and takin' a message to my little gal as is in there deaf and dumb?' So I ses, 'No.' Well, I goes, and they lets me in, and I tells the message, and they shows me the kid what it was for. Pooty little gal! So they tells her the message, and then she begins making orts and crosses like on her hands. 'What's she a doin' that for?' I ses. 'She's a talkin' to you,' ses they. 'O,' I ses, 'what's she talkin' about?' 'She says you're a good boy for comin' and tellin' her about her mother, and she loves you.' Blessed if I could help laughin'! So I ses, 'There ain't no call for her to say that.' Pooty little kid she was! I stayed there a goodish bit, and walked about the garden with her, and what d'ye think? Presently she takes a fancy for some of my jacket buttons,--brass uns they was, with the name of the 'house' on 'em,--and I cuts four on 'em off and gives her. Well, when I gave her them blow me if she didn't want one of the brass buckles off my shoes. Well, you mightn't think it, but I gave her that too." "Didn't yer get into a row when you got back?" some listener asked. "Rather! Got kep without dinner and walloped as well, as I wouldn't tell what I'd done with 'em. Then they was goin' to wallop me again, so I thought I'd cheek it out; so I up and told the master all about it." "And got it wuss?" "No, I didn't. The master give me new buttons and a buckle without saying another word, and my dinner along with my supper as well." [Illustration] THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT. BY BRET HARTE. As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat, on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous. Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause, was another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected; "likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture. In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment. Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said Jim Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire stranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity, residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst, overruled this narrower local prejudice. Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer. A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman familiarly known as "The Duchess"; another, who had won the title of "Mother Shipton"; and "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only, when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return, at the peril of their lives. As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, "Five Spot," for the sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of "Five Spot" with malevolence; and Uncle Billy included the whole party in one sweeping anathema. The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills, into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party halted. The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of "throwing up their hands before the game was played out." But they were furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them. Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his own language, he "couldn't afford it." As he gazed at his recumbent fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky, ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow. And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called. A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as "The Innocent" of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over a "little game," and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire fortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth. After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind the door and thus addressed him: "Tommy, you're a good little man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again." He then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson. There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. "Alone?" No, not exactly alone; in fact (a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen, emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her lover. Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not fortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means for making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. "Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst," said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, "and I can shift for myself." Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to retire up the cañon until he could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire--for the air had grown strangely chill, and the sky overcast--in apparently amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. "Is this yer a d--d picnic?" said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again, and cram his fist into his mouth. As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep. Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it,--snow! He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain, and a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow. The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It came slowly in a whirling mist of snow-flakes, that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two words,--"Snowed in!" A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence they might last ten days longer. "That is," said Mr. Oakhurst, _sotto voce_ to the Innocent, "if you're willing to board us. If you ain't--and perhaps you'd better not--we can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions." For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection. "They'll find out the truth about us _all_ when they find out anything," he added, significantly, "and there's no good frightening them now." Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion. "We'll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow'll melt, and we'll all go back together." The cheerful gayety of the young man, and Mr. Oakhurst's calm, infected the others. The Innocent, with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior, with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. "I reckon now you're used to fine things at Poker Flat," said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply, to conceal something that reddened her cheek through its professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to "chatter." But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had prudently _cachéd_. "And yet it don't somehow sound like whiskey," said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm, and the group around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was "square fun." Whether Mr. Oakhurst had _cachéd_ his cards with the whiskey, as something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in Mother Shipton's words, he "didn't say cards once" during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castinets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant tone and covenanter's swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:-- "I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in his army." The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow. At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent by saying that he had "often been a week without sleep." "Doing what?" asked Tom. "Poker!" replied Oakhurst, sententiously; "when a man gets a streak of luck,--nigger-luck,--he don't get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continued the gambler, reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when it's going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat; you come along, and slap you get into it too. If you can hold your cards right along, you're all right. For," added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance,-- "I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in his army." The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut,--a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white, lying below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed the Duchess. "Just you go out there and cuss, and see." She then set herself to the task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn't swear and wasn't improper. When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney,--story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem--having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words--in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed Achilles." So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the snow-flakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other's eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton--once the strongest of the party--seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. "I'm going," she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, "but don't say anything about it. Don't waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head, and open it." Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton's rations for the last week, untouched. "Give 'em to the child," she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. "You've starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what they call it," said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away. The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. "There's one chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to Piney; "but it's there," he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. "If you can reach there in two days, she's safe." "And you?" asked Tom Simson. "I'll stay here," was the curt reply. The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. "As far as the cañon," he replied. He turned suddenly, and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement. Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney. The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very hut. Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can you pray?" "No, dear," said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep. The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above. They slept all that day and the next; nor did they waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other's arms. But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. It bore the following, written in pencil, in a firm hand:-- BENEATH THIS TREE LIES THE BODY OF JOHN OAKHURST, WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850, AND HANDED IN HIS CHECKS ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850. And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE. I suppose that very few casual readers of the New York Herald of August 13th observed, in an obscure corner, among the "Deaths," the announcement,-- "NOLAN. Died, on board U.S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, PHILIP NOLAN." I happened to observe it, because I was stranded at the old Mission-House in Mackinaw, waiting for a Lake Superior steamer which did not choose to come, and I was devouring to the very stubble all the current literature I could get hold of, even down to the deaths and marriages in the Herald. My memory for names and people is good, and the reader will see, as he goes on, that I had reason enough to remember Philip Nolan. There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer of the Levant who reported it had chosen to make it thus:--"Died, May 11th, THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY." For it was as "The Man without a Country" that poor Philip Nolan had generally been known by the officers who had him in charge during some fifty years, as, indeed, by all the men who sailed under them. I dare say there is many a man who has taken wine with him once a fortnight, in a three years' cruise, who never knew that his name was "Nolan," or whether the poor wretch had any name at all. There can now be no possible harm in telling this poor creature's story. Reason enough there has been till now, ever since Madison's administration went out in 1817, for very strict secrecy, the secrecy of honor itself, among the gentlemen of the navy who have had Nolan in successive charge. And certainly it speaks well for the _esprit de corps_ of the profession and the personal honor of its members, that to the press this man's story has been wholly unknown,--and, I think, to the country at large also. I have reason to think, from some investigations I made in the Naval Archives when I was attached to the Bureau of Construction, that every official report relating to him was burned when Ross burned the public buildings at Washington. One of the Tuckers, or possibly one of the Watsons, had Nolan in charge at the end of the war; and when, on returning from his cruise, he reported at Washington to one of the Crowninshields,--who was in the Navy Department when he came home,--he found that the Department ignored the whole business. Whether they really knew nothing about it, or whether it was a "_Non mi ricordo_," determined on as a piece of policy, I do not know. But this I do know, that since 1817, and possibly before, no naval officer has mentioned Nolan in his report of a cruise. But, as I say, there is no need for secrecy any longer. And now the poor creature is dead, it seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young Americans of to-day what it is to be a man without a country. Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the "Legion of the West," as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, at Fort Massac, or somewhere above on the river, he met, as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow, at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flat-boat, and, in short, fascinated him. For the next year barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed in this unrequited affection for a politician the time which they devoted to Monongahela, sledge, and high-low-jack. Bourbon, euchre, and poker were still unknown. But one day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came down the river, not as an attorney seeking a place for his office, but as a disguised conqueror. He had defeated I know not how many district-attorneys; he had dined at I know not how many public dinners; he had been heralded in I know not how many Weekly Arguses, and it was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire before him. It was a great day--his arrival--to poor Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort an hour before he sent for him. That evening he asked Nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake or a cotton-wood tree, as he said,--really to seduce him; and by the time the sail was over Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as a man without a country. What Burr meant to do I know no more than you, dear reader. It is none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catastrophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great treason-trial at Richmond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi Valley, which was farther from us than Puget's Sound is to-day, introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage, and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort Adams, got up, for _spectacles_, a string of court-martials on the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough,--that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march any-whither with any one who would follow him, had the order only been signed, "By command of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped,--rightly for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty enough, as I say; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that, when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy,-- "D--n the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!" I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness. He, on his part, had grown up in the West of those days, in the midst of "Spanish plot," "Orleans plot," and all the rest. He had been educated on a plantation where the finest company was a Spanish officer or a French merchant from Orleans. His education, such as it was, had been perfected in commercial expeditions to Vera Cruz, and I think he told me his father once hired an Englishman to be a private tutor for a winter on the plantation. He had spent half his youth with an older brother, hunting horses in Texas; and, in a word, to him "United States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by "United States" for all the years since he had been in the army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true to "United States." It was "United States" which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States" had picked you out first as one of her own confidential men of honor, that "A. Burr" cared for you a straw more than for the flat-boat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only explain to the reader why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. He never did hear her name but once again. From that moment, September 23, 1807, till the day he died, May 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. For that half-century and more he was a man without a country. Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. If Nolan had compared George Washington to Benedict Arnold, or had cried, "God save King George," Morgan would not have felt worse. He called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say,-- "Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again." Nolan laughed. But nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added,-- "Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there." The Marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court. "Mr. Marshal," continued old Morgan, "see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. The court is adjourned without day." I have always supposed that Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court to Washington City, and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. Certain it is that the President approved them,--certain, that is, if I may believe the men who say they have seen his signature. Before the Nautilus got round from New Orleans to the Northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board, the sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a country. The plan then adopted was substantially the same which was necessarily followed ever after. Perhaps it was suggested by the necessity of sending him by water from Fort Adams and Orleans. The Secretary of the Navy--it must have been the first Crowninshield, though he is a man I do not remember--was requested to put Nolan on board a government vessel bound on a long cruise, and to direct that he should be only so far confined there as to make it certain that he never saw or heard of the country. We had few long cruises then, and the navy was very much out of favor; and as almost all of this story is traditional, as I have explained, I do not know certainly what his first cruise was. But the commander to whom he was intrusted,--perhaps it was Tingey or Shaw, though I think it was one of the younger men,--we are all old enough now,--regulated the etiquette and the precautions of the affair, and according to his scheme they were carried out, I suppose, till Nolan died. When I was second officer of the Intrepid, some thirty years after, I saw the original paper of instructions. I have been sorry ever since that I did not copy the whole of it. It ran, however, much in this way:-- "WASHINGTON" (with the date, which must have been late in 1807). "SIR,--You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the person of Philip Nolan, late a Lieutenant in the United States Army. "This person on his trial by court-martial expressed with an oath the wish that he might 'never hear of the United States again.' "The Court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. "For the present, the execution of the order is intrusted by the President to this department. "You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. "You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank, if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his government. "The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unnecessarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. "But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his country or to see any information regarding it; and you will specially caution all the officers under your command to take care, that in the various indulgences which may be granted, this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be broken. "It is the intention of the government that he shall never again see the country which he has disowned. Before the end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give effect to this intention. "Respectfully yours, "W. SOUTHARD, for the Secretary of the Navy." If I had only preserved the whole of this paper, there would be no break in the beginning of my sketch of this story. For Captain Shaw, if it was he, handed it to his successor in the charge, and he to his, and I suppose the commander of the Levant has it to-day as his authority for keeping this man in this mild custody. The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man without a country" was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war,--cut off more than half the talk men like to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system. He was not permitted to talk with the men, unless an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites: I was one. Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his own state-room,--he always had a state-room,--which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite "Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him "Plain-Buttons," because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army-uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army-button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned. I remember, soon after I joined the navy, I was on shore with some of the older officers from our ship and from the Brandywine, which we had met at Alexandria. We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on donkeys then), some of the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the system which was adopted from the first about his books and other reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time, at the best, hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back of what was cut out might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which afterwards I had enough, and more than enough to do with. I remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English Admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean, Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an officer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a windfall. Among them, as the Devil would order, was the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the "Tempest" from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things so often now; but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began, without a thought of what was coming,-- "Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said--" It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically,-- "This is my own, my native land!" Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on,-- "Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?-- If such there breathe, go, mark him well." By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on,-- "For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self--" and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room, "And by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him." That story shows about the time when Nolan's braggadocio must have broken down. At first, they said, he took a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce, affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that; but Phillips said that after he came out of his state-room he never was the same man again. He never read aloud again, unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again. He was always shy afterwards, when I knew him,--very seldom spoke unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends. He lighted up occasionally,--I remember late in his life hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been suggested to him by one of Fléchier's sermons,--but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man. When Captain Shaw was coming home,--if, as I say, it was Shaw,--rather to the surprise of everybody they made one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly a week. The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk, and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home. But after several days the Warren came to the same rendezvous; they exchanged signals; she sent to Phillips and these homeward-bound men letters and papers, and told them she was outward-bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his second cruise. He looked very blank when he was told to get ready to join her. He had known enough of the signs of the sky to know that till that moment he was going "home." But this was a distinct evidence of something he had not thought of, perhaps,--that there was no going home for him, even to a prison. And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again. It may have been on that second cruise--it was once when he was up the Mediterranean--that Mrs. Graff, the celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him. They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and the officers were very intimate in the English fleet, and there had been great festivities, and our men thought they must give a great ball on board the ship. How they ever did it on board the Warren I am sure I do not know. Perhaps it was not the Warren, or perhaps ladies did not take up so much room as they do now. They wanted to use Nolan's state-room for something, and they hated to do it without asking him to the ball; so the captain said they might ask him, if they would be responsible that he did not talk with the wrong people, "who would give him intelligence." So the dance went on, the finest party that had ever been known, I dare say; for I never heard of a man-of-war ball that was not. For ladies they had the family of the American consul, one or two travellers who had adventured so far, and a nice bevy of English girls and matrons, perhaps Lady Hamilton herself. Well, different officers relieved each other in standing and talking with Nolan in a friendly way, so as to be sure that nobody else spoke to him. The dancing went on with spirit, and after a while even the fellows who took this honorary guard of Nolan ceased to fear any _contre-temps_. Only when some English lady--Lady Hamilton, as I said, perhaps--called for a set of "American dances," an odd thing happened. Everybody then danced contra-dances. The black band, nothing loath, conferred as to what "American dances" were, and started off with "Virginia Reel," which they followed with "Money-Musk," which in its turn in those days should have been followed by "The Old Thirteen." But just as Dick, the leader, tapped for his fiddles to begin, and bent forward, about to say in true negro state, "'The Old Thirteen,' gentlemen and ladies!" as he had said "'Virginny Reel,' if you please!" and "'Money-Musk,' if you please!" the captain's boy tapped him on the shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and they all fell to,--the officers teaching the English girls the figure, but not telling them why it had no name. But that is not the story I started to tell.--As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got at ease, as I said,--so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say,-- "I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge. Shall I have the honor of dancing?" He did it so quickly, that Fellows, who was by him, could not hinder him. She laughed, and said,-- "I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I will dance all the same," just nodded to Fellows, as if to say he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place where the dance was forming. Nolan thought he had got his chance. He had known her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and this was a Godsend. You could not talk in contra-dances, as you do in cotillons, or even in the pauses of waltzing; but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as for eyes and blushes. He began with her travels, and Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when they had worked down, and had that long talking-time at the bottom of the set, he said boldly,--a little pale, she said, as she told me the story, years after,-- "And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?" And that splendid creature looked through him. Jove! how she must have looked through him! "Home!! Mr. Nolan!!! I thought you were the man who never wanted to hear of home again!"--And she walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor Nolan alone, as he always was.--He did not dance again. I cannot give any history of him in order; nobody can now; and, indeed, I am not trying to. These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told about this man for forty years. The lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows used to say he was the "Iron Mask"; and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author of "Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons was not very strong in the historical line. A happier story than either of these I have told is of the War. That came along soon after. I have heard this affair told in three or four ways,--and indeed it may have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I cannot tell. However, in one, at least, of the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon's people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt-sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority,--who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him,--perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,--sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,--showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot,--making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders,--and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said,-- "I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir." And this is the part of the story where all the legends agree; that the Commodore said,-- "I see you do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir." And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said,-- "Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here." And when Nolan came the captain said,-- "Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the despatches." And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony, and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that infernal day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards, on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the Commodore's. The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was always said he asked that he might be pardoned. He wrote a special letter to the Secretary of War. But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington, and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was nobody to stop it without any new orders from home. I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took possession of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you know, but old Porter, his father, Essex Porter,--that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex. As an artillery officer, who had seen service in the West, Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would have settled all the question about his punishment. We should have kept the islands, and at this moment we should have one station in the Pacific Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied. But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that away. All that was near fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time; but that he read just five hours a day. "Then," he said, "I keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called "Odds and Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will have Nolan's scrap-books. Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything about the habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether they are _Lepidoptera_ or _Steptopotera_; but as for telling how you can get rid of them, or how they get away from you when you strike them,--why, Linnæus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours made Nolan's regular daily "occupation." The rest of the time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a great deal. He always kept up his exercise; and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to on any other occasion, he was always ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully. My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the War, on my first voyage after I was appointed a midshipman. It was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was a sort of lay chaplain,--a chaplain with a blue coat. I never asked about him. Everything in the ship was strange to me. I knew it was green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a "Plain Buttons" on every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week, and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to be said about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were a great many things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first came to understand anything about "the man without a country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message came, and we all wished we could interpret, when the captain asked who spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to interpret, if the captain wished, as he understood the language. The captain thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go. When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were not a great many of the negroes; but by way of making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had their hand-cuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake was putting them upon the rascals of the schooner's crew. The negroes were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarming all round the dirty deck, with a central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in every dialect and _patois_ of a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the Parisian of Beledeljereed. As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and said,-- "For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand something? The men gave them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe him. And then I talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they understood that as well as they understood the English." Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already, had worked for the Portuguese on the coast at Fernando Po. "Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get rope enough." Nolan "put that into Spanish,"--that is, he explained it in such Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand them. Then there was such a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a general rush made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous worship of Vaughan, as the _deus ex machina_ of the occasion. "Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said, "_Ah, non Palmas_," and began to propose infinite other expedients in most voluble language. Vaughan was rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men down, and said,-- "He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these devils caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says," choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon." Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through this interpretation. I, who did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting with fervent heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words he said,-- "Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!" And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs. But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me, "Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it, when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "and for that flag," and he pointed to the ship, "never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!" I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out, that I would, by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say, "O, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!" I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never abused, for I never told this story till now, which afterward made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at night, to walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so directly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in St. Thomas Harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and later in life, when I thought I had some influence in Washington, I moved heaven and earth to have him discharged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison. They pretended there was no such man, and never was such a man. They will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to know nothing! There is a story that Nolan met Burr, once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But this I believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, _ben trovato_, involving a tremendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr,--asking him how he liked to be "without a country." But it is clear, from Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened; and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least mystery at bottom. So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. I know but one fate more dreadful: it is the fate reserved for those men who shall have one day to exile themselves from their country because they have attempted her ruin, and shall have at the same time to see the prosperity and honor to which she rises when she has rid herself of them and their iniquities. The wish of poor Nolan, as we all learned to call him, not because his punishment was too great, but because his repentance was so clear, was precisely the wish of every Bragg and Beauregard who broke a soldier's oath two years ago, and of every Maury and Barron who broke a sailor's. I do not know how often they have repented. I do know that they have done all that in them lay that they might have no country,--that all the honors, associations, memories, and hopes which belong to "country" might be broken up into little shreds and distributed to the winds. I know, too, that their punishment, as they vegetate through what is left of life to them in wretched Boulognes and Leicester Squares, where they are destined to upbraid each other till they die, will have all the agony of Nolan's, with the added pang that every one who sees them will see them to despise and to execrate them. They will have their wish, like him. For him, poor fellow, he repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. He never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but they never happened from his fault. Lieutenant Truxton told me, that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion among the officers, whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps and cut Texas out of it,--from the map of the world and the map of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the atlas was bought for him. But it was voted rightly enough, that to do this would be virtually to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think old Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a short time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South American station. We were lying in the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on shore, and had just joined again, were entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-wild horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story of a tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own, when he was catching wild horses in Texas with his brother Stephen, at a time when he must have been quite a boy. He told the story with a good deal of spirit,--so much so, that the silence which often follows a good story hung over the table for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked, perfectly unconsciously,-- "Pray, what has become of Texas? After the Mexicans got their independence, I thought that province of Texas would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the Italy of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty years." There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason he had never heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so that, while he read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and till quite lately, of California,--this virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far, and, I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each other, and tried not to laugh. Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's chandelier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say,-- "Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome?" After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice a year, for in that voyage we became even confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in those fifteen years he _aged_ very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self-appointed punishment,--rather less social, perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious, apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom fairly seemed to worship him. And now, it seems, the dear old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and a country. * * * * * Since writing this, and while considering whether or no I would print it, as a warning to the young Nolans and Vallandighams and Tatnals of to-day of what it is to throw away a country, I have received from Danforth, who is on board the Levant, a letter which gives an account of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about telling this story. To understand the first words of the letter, the nonprofessional reader should remember that after 1817, the position of every officer who had Nolan in charge was one of the greatest delicacy. The government had failed to renew the order of 1807 regarding him. What was a man to do? Should he let him go? What, then, if he were called to account by the Department for violating the order of 1807? Should he keep him? What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had had him in charge? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I have reason to think that other officers did the same thing. But the Secretary always said, as they so often do at Washington, that there were no special orders to give, and that we must act on our own judgment. That means, "If you succeed, you will be sustained; if you fail, you will be disavowed." Well, as Danforth says, all that is over now, though I do not know but I expose myself to a criminal prosecution on the evidence of the very revelation I am making. Here is the letter:-- LEVANT, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. "DEAR FRED,--I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near. The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not left his state-room,--a thing I never remember before. He had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there,--the first time the doctor had been in the state-room,--and he said he should like to see me. O dear! do you remember the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room, in the old Intrepid days? Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, 'Here, you see, I have a country!' And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large letters: 'Indiana Territory,' 'Mississippi Territory,' and 'Louisiana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers learned such things: but the old fellow had patched in Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing. "'O Danforth,' he said, 'I know I am dying. I cannot get home. Surely you will tell me something now?--Stop! stop! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America,--God bless her!--a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are. There has never been one taken away: I thank God for that. I know by that, that there has never been any successful Burr. O Danforth, Danforth,' he sighed out, 'how like a wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a life as mine! But tell me,--tell me something,--tell me everything, Danforth, before I die!' "Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster that I had not told him everything before. Danger or no danger, delicacy or no delicacy, who was I, that I should have been acting the tyrant all this time over this dear, sainted old man, who had years ago expiated, in his whole manhood's life, the madness of a boy's treason? 'Mr. Nolan,' said I, 'I will tell you everything you ask about. Only, where shall I begin?' "O the blessed smile that crept over his white face! and he pressed my hand and said, 'God bless you!' 'Tell me their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. 'The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi,--that was where Fort Adams is,--they make twenty. But where are your other fourteen? You have not cut up any of the old ones, I hope?' "Well, that was not a bad text, and I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas, told me how his brother died there; he had marked a gold cross where he supposed his brother's grave was; and he had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw California and Oregon;--that, he said, he had suspected partly, because he had never been permitted to land on that shore, though the ships were there so much. 'And the men,' said he, laughing, 'brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then he went back--heavens, how far!--to ask about the Chesapeake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again,--and he ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was over, and he said, 'God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old war,--told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took the Java,--asked about dear old David Porter, as he called him. Then he settled down more quietly, and very happily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. "How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told him all I could think about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you think, he asked, who was in command of the 'Legion of the West.' I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant, and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head-quarters at Vicksburg. Then, 'Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams; and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now. 'It must be at old Vick's plantation,' said he; 'well, that is a change!' "I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him,--of emigration, and the means of it,--of steamboats, and railroads, and telegraphs,--of inventions, and books, and literature,--of the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School,--but with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six years! "I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President now; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had worked up from the ranks. 'Good for him!' cried Nolan; 'I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian, and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Washington. Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal Rebellion! "And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right place,--and so it did. There was his double red mark down the page; and I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me, 'For ourselves and our country, O gracious God, we thank Thee, that notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy marvellous kindness,'--and so to the end of that thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the words more familiar to me,--'Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the United States, and all others in authority,'--and the rest of the Episcopal Collect. 'Danforth,' said he, 'I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me; and he said, 'Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went away. "But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy and I wanted him to be alone. "But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of Cincinnati. "We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper, at the place where he had marked the text,-- "'They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city.' "On this slip of paper he had written,-- "'Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it,-- "'IN MEMORY OF "'PHILIP NOLAN, "'LIEUTENANT IN THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES. "'He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.'" [Illustration] [Illustration] FLIGHT OF A TARTAR TRIBE. BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY. There is no great event in modern history, or, perhaps it may be said more broadly, none in all history, from its earliest records, less generally known, or more striking to the imagination, than the flight eastward of a principal Tartar nation across the boundless _steppes_ of Asia in the latter half of the last century. The _terminus a quo_ of this flight and the _terminus ad quem_ are equally magnificent,--the mightiest of Christian thrones being the one, the mightiest of pagan the other; and the grandeur of these two terminal objects is harmoniously supported by the romantic circumstances of the flight. In the abruptness of its commencement and the fierce velocity of its execution we read an expression of the wild, barbaric character of the agents. In the unity of purpose connecting this myriad of wills, and in the blind but unerring aim at a mark so remote, there is something which recalls to the mind those almighty instincts that propel the migrations of the swallow or the life-withering marches of the locust. Then, again, in the gloomy vengeance of Russia and her vast artillery, which hung upon the rear and the skirts of the fugitive vassals, we are reminded of Miltonic images,--such, for instance, as that of the solitary hand pursuing through desert spaces and through ancient chaos a rebellious host, and overtaking with volleying thunders those who believed themselves already within the security of darkness and of distance. We shall have occasion, farther on, to compare this event with other great national catastrophes as to the magnitude of the suffering; but it may also challenge a comparison with similar events under another relation, viz. as to its dramatic capabilities. Few cases, perhaps, in romance or history, can sustain a close collation with this as to the complexity of its separate interests. The great outline of the enterprise, taken in connection with the operative motives, hidden or avowed, and the religious sanctions under which it was pursued, give to the case a triple character: 1st. That of a conspiracy, with as close a unity in the incidents, and as much of a personal interest in the moving characters, with fine dramatic contrasts, as belongs to Venice Preserved or to the Fiesco of Schiller. 2dly. That of a great military expedition, offering the same romantic features of vast distances to be traversed, vast reverses to be sustained, untried routes, enemies obscurely ascertained, and hardships too vaguely prefigured, which mark the Egyptian expedition of Cambyses; the anabasis of the younger Cyrus, and the subsequent retreat of the ten thousand to the Black Sea; the Parthian expeditions of the Romans, especially those of Crassus and Julian; or (as more disastrous than any of them, and in point of space, as well as in amount of forces, more extensive) the Russian anabasis and katabasis of Napoleon. 3dly. That of a religious exodus, authorized by an oracle venerated throughout many nations of Asia,--an exodus therefore, in so far resembling the great scriptural exodus of the Israelites under Moses and Joshua, as well as in the very peculiar distinction of carrying along with them their entire families, women, children, slaves, their herds of cattle and of sheep, their horses and their camels. This triple character of the enterprise naturally invests it with a more comprehensive interest; but the dramatic interest which we ascribed to it, or its fitness for a stage representation, depends partly upon the marked variety and the strength of the personal agencies concerned, and partly upon the succession of scenical situations. Even the _steppes_, the camels, the tents, the snowy and the sandy deserts, are not beyond the scale of our modern representative powers, as often called into action in the theatres both of Paris and London; and the series of situations unfolded, beginning with the general conflagration on the Wolga; passing thence to the disastrous scenes of the flight (as it literally was in its commencement); to the Tartar siege of the Russian fortress Koulagina; the bloody engagement with the Cossacks in the mountain passes at Ouchim; the surprisal by the Bashkirs and the advanced posts of the Russian army at Torgau; the private conspiracy at this point against the khan; the long succession of running fights; the parting massacres at the Lake of Tengis under the eyes of the Chinese; and, finally, the tragical retribution to Zebek-Dorchi at the hunting lodge of the Chinese emperor,--all these situations communicate a _scenical_ animation to the wild romance, if treated dramatically; whilst a higher and a philosophic interest belongs to it as a case of authentic history, commemorating a great revolution, for good and for evil, in the fortunes of a whole people,--a people semi-barbarous, but simple hearted, and of ancient descent. * * * * * On the 21st of January, 1761, the young Prince Oubacha assumed the sceptre of the Kalmucks upon the death of his father. Some part of the power attached to this dignity he had already wielded since his fourteenth year, in quality of vice-khan, by the express appointment, and with the avowed support, of the Russian government. He was now about eighteen years of age, amiable in his personal character, and not without titles to respect in his public character as a sovereign prince. In times more peaceable, and amongst a people more entirely civilized or more humanized by religion, it is even probable that he might have discharged his high duties with considerable distinction; but his lot was thrown upon stormy times, and a most difficult crisis amongst tribes whose native ferocity was exasperated by debasing forms of superstition, and by a nationality as well as an inflated conceit of their own merit absolutely unparalleled; whilst the circumstances of their hard and trying position under the jealous _surveillance_ of an irresistible lord paramount, in the person of the Russian czar, gave a fiercer edge to the natural unamiableness of the Kalmuck disposition, and irritated its gloomier qualities into action under the restless impulses of suspicion and permanent distrust. No prince could hope for a cordial allegiance from his subjects, or a peaceful reign under the circumstances of the case; for the dilemma in which a Kalmuck ruler stood at present was of this nature: _wanting_ the sanction and support of the czar, he was inevitably too weak from without to command confidence from his subjects or resistance to his competitors. On the other hand, _with_ this kind of support, and deriving his title in any degree from the favor of the imperial court, he became almost in that extent an object of hatred at home and within the whole compass of his own territory. He was at once an object of hatred for the past, being a living monument of national independence ignominiously surrendered, and an object of jealousy for the future, as one who had already advertised himself to be a fitting tool for the ultimate purposes (whatsoever those might prove to be) of the Russian court. Coming himself to the Kalmuck sceptre under the heaviest weight of prejudice from the unfortunate circumstances of his position, it might have been expected that Oubacha would have been pre-eminently an object of detestation; for, besides his known dependence upon the cabinet of St. Petersburg, the direct line of succession had been set aside, and the principle of inheritance violently suspended, in favor of his own father, so recently as nineteen years before the era of his own accession, consequently within the lively remembrance of the existing generation. He, therefore, almost equally with his father, stood within the full current of the national prejudices, and might have anticipated the most pointed hostility. But it was not so; such are the caprices in human affairs, that he was even, in a moderate sense, popular,--a benefit which wore the more cheering aspect and the promises of permanence, inasmuch as he owed it exclusively to his personal qualities of kindness and affability, as well as to the beneficence of his government. On the other hand, to balance this unlooked-for prosperity at the outset of his reign, he met with a rival in popular favor--almost a competitor--in the person of Zebek-Dorchi, a prince with considerable pretensions to the throne, and, perhaps it might be said, with equal pretensions. Zebek-Dorchi was a direct descendant of the same royal house as himself, through a different branch. On public grounds his claim stood, perhaps, on a footing equally good with that of Oubacha; whilst his personal qualities, even in those aspects which seemed to a philosophical observer most odious and repulsive, promised the most effectual aid to the dark purposes of an intriguer or a conspirator, and were generally fitted to win a popular support precisely in those points where Oubacha was most defective. He was much superior in external appearance to his rival on the throne, and so far better qualified to win the good opinion of a semi-barbarous people; whilst his dark intellectual qualities of Machiavelian dissimulation, profound hypocrisy, and perfidy which knew no touch of remorse, were admirably calculated to sustain any ground which he might win from the simple-hearted people with whom he had to deal and from the frank carelessness of his unconscious competitor. At the very outset of his treacherous career Zebek-Dorchi was sagacious enough to perceive that nothing could be gained by open declaration of hostility to the reigning prince. The choice had been a deliberate act on the part of Russia; and Elizabeth Petrowna was not the person to recall her own favors with levity or upon slight grounds. Openly, therefore, to have declared his enmity towards his relative on the throne, could have had no effect but that of arming suspicions against his own ulterior purposes in a quarter where it was most essential to his interest that for the present all suspicion should be hoodwinked. Accordingly, after much meditation, the course he took for opening his snares was this: He raised a rumor that his own life was in danger from the plots of several _saissang_ (that is, Kalmuck nobles), who were leagued together under an oath to assassinate him; and immediately after, assuming a well-counterfeited alarm, he fled to Tcherkask, followed by sixty-five tents. From this place he kept up a correspondence with the imperial court; and, by way of soliciting his cause more effectually, he soon repaired in person to St. Petersburg. Once admitted to personal conferences with the cabinet, he found no difficulty in winning over the Russian councils to a concurrence with some of his political views, and thus covertly introducing the point of that wedge which was finally to accomplish his purposes. In particular, he persuaded the Russian government to make a very important alteration in the constitution of the Kalmuck state council, which in effect reorganized the whole political condition of the state and disturbed the balance of power as previously adjusted. Of this council--in the Kalmuck language called _sarga_--there were eight members, called _sargatchi_; and hitherto it had been the custom that these eight members should be entirely subordinate to the khan; holding, in fact, the ministerial character of secretaries and assistants, but in no respect ranking as co-ordinate authorities. That had produced some inconveniences in former reigns; and it was easy for Zebek-Dorchi to point the jealousy of the Russian court to others more serious which might arise in future circumstances of war or other contingencies. It was resolved, therefore, to place the _sargatchi_ henceforward on a footing of perfect independence, and, therefore (as regarded responsibility), on a footing of equality with the khan. Their independence, however, had respect only to their own sovereign; for towards Russia they were placed in a new attitude of direct duty and accountability by the creation in their favor of small pensions (three hundred rubles a year), which, however, to a Kalmuck of that day were more considerable than might be supposed, and had a further value as marks of honorary distinction emanating from a great empress. Thus far the purposes of Zebek-Dorchi were served effectually for the moment; but, apparently, it was only for the moment; since, in the further development of his plots, this very dependency upon Russian influence would be the most serious obstacle in his way. There was, however, another point carried, which outweighed all inferior considerations, as it gave him a power of setting aside discretionally whatsoever should arise to disturb his plots,--he was himself appointed president and controller of the _sargatchi_. The Russian court had been aware of his high pretensions by birth, and hoped by this promotion to satisfy the ambition which, in some degree, was acknowledged to be a reasonable passion for any man occupying his situation. Having thus completely blindfolded the cabinet of Russia, Zebek-Dorchi proceeded in his new character to fulfil his political mission with the Khan of the Kalmucks. So artfully did he prepare the road for his favorable reception at the court of this prince, that he was at once and universally welcomed as a public benefactor. The pensions of the councillors were so much additional wealth poured into the Tartar exchequer: as to the ties of dependency thus created, experience had not yet enlightened these simple tribes as to that result. And that he himself should be the chief of these mercenary councillors, was so far from being charged upon Zebek as any offence or any ground of suspicion, that his relative the khan returned him hearty thanks for his services, under the belief that he could have accepted this appointment only with a view to keep out other and more unwelcome pretenders, who would not have had the same motives of consanguinity or friendship for executing its duties in a spirit of kindness to the Kalmucks. The first use which he made of his new functions about the khan's person was to attack the court of Russia, by a romantic villany not easily to be credited, for those very acts of interference with the council which he himself had prompted. This was a dangerous step; but it was indispensable to his further advance upon the gloomy path which he had traced out for himself. A triple vengeance was what he meditated: 1. Upon the Russian cabinet, for having undervalued his own pretensions to the throne; 2. Upon his amiable rival, for having supplanted him; and, 3. Upon all those of the nobility who had manifested their sense of his weakness by their neglect, or their sense of his perfidious character by their suspicions. Here was a colossal outline of wickedness; and by one in his situation, feeble (as it might seem) for the accomplishment of its humblest parts, how was the total edifice to be reared in its comprehensive grandeur? He, a worm as he was,--could he venture to assail the mighty behemoth of Muscovy, the potentate who counted three hundred languages around the footsteps of his throne, and from whose "lion ramp" recoiled alike "baptized and infidel,"--Christendom on the one side, strong by her intellect and her organization, and the "barbaric East" on the other, with her unnumbered numbers? The match was a monstrous one; but in its very monstrosity there lay this germ of encouragement,--that it could not be suspected. The very hopelessness of the scheme grounded his hope; and he resolved to execute a vengeance which should involve as it were, in the unity of a well-laid tragic fable, all of whom he judged to be his enemies. That vengeance lay in detaching from the Russian empire the whole Kalmuck nation and breaking up that system of intercourse which had thus far been beneficial to both. This last was a consideration which moved him but little. True it was that Russia to the Kalmucks had secured lands and extensive pasturage; true it was that the Kalmucks reciprocally to Russia had furnished a powerful cavalry; but the latter loss would be part of his triumph, and the former might be more than compensated in other climates, under other sovereigns. Here was a scheme which, in its final accomplishment, would avenge him bitterly on the czarina, and in the course of its accomplishment might furnish him with ample occasions for removing his other enemies. It may be readily supposed, indeed, that he who could deliberately raise his eyes to the Russian autocrat as an antagonist in single duel with himself was not likely to feel much anxiety about Kalmuck enemies of whatever rank. He took his resolution, therefore, sternly and irrevocably to effect this astonishing translation of an ancient people across the pathless deserts of Central Asia, intersected continually by rapid rivers rarely furnished with bridges, and of which the fords were known only to those who might think it for their interest to conceal them, through many nations inhospitable or hostile,--frost and snow around them (from the necessity of commencing their flight in the winter), famine in their front, and the sabre, or even the artillery, of an offended and mighty empress hanging upon their rear for thousands of miles. But what was to be their final mark, the port of shelter, after so fearful a course of wandering? Two things were evident: it must be some power at a great distance from Russia, so as to make return even in that view hopeless, and it must be a power of sufficient rank to insure them protection from any hostile efforts on the part of the czarina for reclaiming them or for chastising their revolt. Both conditions were united obviously in the person of Kien Long, the reigning emperor of China, who was further recommended to them by his respect for the head of their religion. To China, therefore, and, as their first rendezvous, to the shadow of the great Chinese Wall, it was settled by Zebek that they should direct their flight. Next came the question of time, _When_ should the flight commence? and, finally, the more delicate question as to the choice of accomplices. To extend the knowledge of the conspiracy too far was to insure its betrayal to the Russian government. Yet at some stage of the preparations it was evident that a very extensive confidence must be made, because in no other way could the mass of the Kalmuck population be persuaded to furnish their families with the requisite equipments for so long a migration. This critical step, however, it was resolved to defer up to the latest possible moment, and, at all events, to make no general communication on the subject until the time of departure should be definitely settled. In the mean time Zebek admitted only three persons to his confidence,--of whom Oubacha, the reigning prince, was almost necessarily one; but him, from his yielding and somewhat feeble character, he viewed rather in the light of a tool than as one of his active accomplices. Those whom (if anybody) he admitted to an unreserved participation in his counsels were two only,--the great _lama_ among the Kalmucks, and his own father-in-law, Erempel, a ruling prince of some tribe in the neighborhood of the Caspian Sea, recommended to his favor not so much by any strength of talent corresponding to the occasion, as by his blind devotion to himself and his passionate anxiety to promote the elevation of his daughter and his son-in-law to the throne of a sovereign prince. A titular prince Zebek already was; but this dignity, without the substantial accompaniment of a sceptre, seemed but an empty sound to both of these ambitious rivals. The other accomplice, whose name was Loosang-Dchaltzan, and whose rank was that of lama, or Kalmuck pontiff, was a person of far more distinguished pretensions. He had something of the same gloomy and terrific pride which marked the character of Zebek himself, manifesting also the same energy, accompanied by the same unfaltering cruelty, and a natural facility of dissimulation even more profound. It was by this man that the other question was settled as to the time for giving effect to their designs. His own pontifical character had suggested to him, that in order to strengthen their influence with the vast mob of simple-minded men whom they were to lead into a howling wilderness, after persuading them to lay desolate their own ancient hearths, it was indispensable that they should be able, in cases of extremity, to plead the express sanction of God for their entire enterprise. This could only be done by addressing themselves to the great head of their religion,--the dalai lama of Tibet. Him they easily persuaded to countenance their schemes; and an oracle was delivered solemnly at Tibet, to the effect that no ultimate prosperity would attend this great exodus unless it were pursued through the years of the _tiger_ and the _hare_. Now, the Kalmuck custom is to distinguish their years by attaching to each a denomination taken from one of twelve animals, the exact order of succession being absolutely fixed; so that the cycle revolves, of course, through a period of a dozen years. Consequently, if the approaching year of the _tiger_ were suffered to escape them, in that case the expedition must be delayed for twelve years more; within which period, even were no other unfavorable changes to arise, it was pretty well foreseen that the Russian government would take the most effectual means for bridling their vagrant propensities by a ring fence of forts, or military posts, to say nothing of the still readier plan for securing their fidelity (a plan already talked of in all quarters) by exacting a large body of hostages selected from the families of the most influential nobles. On these cogent considerations, it was solemnly determined that this terrific experiment should be made in the next year of the _tiger_, which happened to fall upon the Christian year 1771. With respect to the month, there was, unhappily for the Kalmucks, even less latitude allowed to their choice than with respect to the year. It was absolutely necessary, or it was thought so, that the different divisions of the nation, which pastured their flocks on both banks of the Wolga, should have the means of effecting an instantaneous junction, because the danger of being intercepted by flying columns of the imperial armies was precisely the greatest at the outset. Now, from the want of bridges or sufficient river craft for transporting so vast a body of men, the sole means which could be depended upon (especially where so many women, children, and camels were concerned) was _ice_; and this, in a state of sufficient firmness, could not be absolutely counted upon before the month of January. Hence it happened that this astonishing exodus of a whole nation, before so much as a whisper of the design had begun to circulate amongst those whom it most interested, before it was even suspected that any man's wishes pointed in that direction, had been definitively appointed for January of the year 1771; and, almost up to the Christmas of 1770, the poor, simple Kalmuck herdsmen and their families were going nightly to their peaceful beds without even dreaming that the _fiat_ had already gone forth from their rulers which consigned those quiet abodes, together with the peace and comfort which reigned within them, to a withering desolation, now close at hand. Meantime war raged on a great scale between Russia and the sultan; and, until the time arrived for throwing off their vassalage, it was necessary that Oubacha should contribute his usual contingent of martial aid; nay, it had unfortunately become prudent that he should contribute much more than his usual aid. Human experience gives ample evidence that in some mysterious and unaccountable way no great design is ever agitated, no matter how few or how faithful may be the participators, but that some presentiment--some dim misgiving--is kindled amongst those whom it is chiefly important to blind. And, however it might have happened, certain it is that already, when as yet no syllable of the conspiracy had been breathed to any man whose very existence was not staked upon its concealment, nevertheless some vague and uneasy jealousy had arisen in the Russian cabinet as to the future schemes of the Kalmuck khan; and very probable it is that, but for the war then raging, and the consequent prudence of conciliating a very important vassal, or, at least, of abstaining from what would powerfully alienate him, even at that moment such measures would have been adopted as must forever have intercepted the Kalmuck schemes. Slight as were the jealousies of the imperial court, they had not escaped the Machiavelian eyes of Zebek and the lama; and under their guidance, Oubacha, bending to the circumstances of the moment, and meeting the jealousy of the Russian court with a policy corresponding to their own, strove by unusual zeal to efface the czarina's unfavorable impressions. He enlarged the scale of his contributions, and _that_ so prodigiously, that he absolutely carried to head-quarters a force of thirty-five thousand cavalry, fully equipped. Some go further, and rate the amount beyond forty thousand; but the smaller estimate is, at all events, _within_ the truth. With this magnificent array of cavalry, heavy as well as light, the khan went into the field under great expectations; and these he more than realized. Having the good fortune to be concerned with so ill-organized and disorderly a description of force as that which at all times composed the bulk of a Turkish army, he carried victory along with his banners; gained many partial successes; and, at last, in a pitched battle, overthrew the Turkish force opposed to him, with a loss of five thousand men left upon the field. These splendid achievements seemed likely to operate in various ways against the impending revolt. Oubacha had now a strong motive, in the martial glory acquired, for continuing his connection with the empire in whose service he had won it and by whom only it could be fully appreciated. He was now a great marshal of a great empire,--one of the Paladins around the imperial throne. In China he would be nobody, or (worse than that) a mendicant alien, prostrate at the feet, and soliciting the precarious alms, of a prince with whom he had no connection. Besides, it might reasonably be expected that the czarina, grateful for the really efficient aid given by the Tartar prince, would confer upon him such eminent rewards as might be sufficient to anchor his hopes upon Russia and to wean him from every possible seduction. These were the obvious suggestions of prudence and good sense to every man who stood neutral in the case. But they were disappointed. The czarina knew her obligations to the khan; but she did not acknowledge them. Wherefore? That is a mystery perhaps never to be explained. So it was, however. The khan went unhonored; no _ukase_ ever proclaimed his merits; and, perhaps, had he even been abundantly recompensed by Russia, there were others who would have defeated these tendencies to reconciliation. Erempel, Zebek, and Loosang the lama were pledged life-deep to prevent any accommodation; and their efforts were unfortunately seconded by those of their deadliest enemies. In the Russian court there were at that time some great nobles preoccupied with feelings of hatred and blind malice towards the Kalmucks, quite as strong as any which the Kalmucks could harbor towards Russia, and not, perhaps, so well founded. Just as much as the Kalmucks hated the Russian yoke, their galling assumption of authority, the marked air of disdain, as towards a nation of ugly, stupid, and filthy barbarians, which too generally marked the Russian bearing and language,--but, above all, the insolent contempt, or even outrages, which the Russian governors or great military commandants tolerated in their followers towards the barbarous religion and superstitious mummeries of the Kalmuck priesthood,--precisely in that extent did the ferocity of the Russian resentment, and their wrath at seeing the trampled worm turn or attempt a feeble retaliation, react upon the unfortunate Kalmucks. At this crisis it is probable that envy and wounded pride, upon witnessing the splendid victories of Oubacha and Momotbacha over the Turks and Bashkirs, contributed strength to the Russian irritation; and it must have been through the intrigues of those nobles about her person who chiefly smarted under these feelings that the czarina could ever have lent herself to the unwise and ungrateful policy pursued at this critical period towards the Kalmuck khan. That czarina was no longer Elizabeth Petrowna; it was Catharine the Second,--a princess who did not often err so injuriously (injuriously for herself as much as for others) in the measures of her government. She had soon ample reason for repenting of her false policy. Meantime, how much it must have co-operated with the other motives previously acting upon Oubacha in sustaining his determination to revolt, and how powerfully it must have assisted the efforts of all the Tartar chieftains in preparing the minds of their people to feel the necessity of this difficult enterprise, by arming their pride and their suspicions against the Russian government, through the keenness of their sympathy with the wrongs of their insulted prince, may be readily imagined. It is a fact, and it has been confessed by candid Russians themselves when treating of this great dismemberment, that the conduct of the Russian cabinet throughout the period of suspense, and during the crisis of hesitation in the Kalmuck council, was exactly such as was most desirable for the purposes of the conspirators; it was such, in fact, as to set the seal to all their machinations, by supplying distinct evidences and official vouchers for what could otherwise have been, at the most, matters of doubtful suspicion and indirect presumption. Nevertheless, in the face of all these arguments, and even allowing their weight so far as not at all to deny the injustice or the impolicy of the imperial ministers, it is contended by many persons who have reviewed the affair with a command of all the documents bearing on the case, more especially the letters or minutes of council subsequently discovered, in the handwriting of Zebek-Dorchi, and the important evidence of the Russian captive Weseloff, who was carried off by the Kalmucks in their flight, that beyond all doubt Oubacha was powerless for any purpose of impeding, or even of delaying the revolt. He himself, indeed, was under religious obligations of the most terrific solemnity never to flinch from the enterprise or even to slacken in his zeal; for Zebek-Dorchi, distrusting the firmness of his resolution under any unusual pressure of alarm or difficulty, had, in the very earliest stage of the conspiracy, availed himself of the khan's well-known superstition, to engage him, by means of previous concert with the priests and their head the lama, in some dark and mysterious rites of consecration, terminating in oaths under such terrific sanctions as no Kalmuck would have courage to violate. As far, therefore, as regarded the personal share of the khan in what was to come, Zebek was entirely at his ease. He knew him to be so deeply pledged by religious terrors to the prosecution of the conspiracy, that no honors within the czarina's gift could have possibly shaken his adhesion; and then, as to threats from the same quarter, he knew him to be sealed against those fears by others of a gloomier character and better adapted to his peculiar temperament. For Oubacha was a brave man, as respected all bodily enemies or the dangers of human warfare, but was as sensitive and timid as the most superstitious of old women in facing the frowns of a priest or under the vague anticipations of ghostly retributions. But had it been otherwise, and had there been any reason to apprehend an unsteady demeanor on the part of this prince at the approach of the critical moment, such were the changes already effected in the state of their domestic politics amongst the Tartars by the undermining arts of Zebek-Dorchi, and his ally the lama, that very little importance would have attached to that doubt. All power was now effectually lodged in the hands of Zebek-Dorchi. He was the true and absolute wielder of the Kalmuck sceptre. All measures of importance were submitted to his discretion, and nothing was finally resolved but under his dictation. This result he had brought about in a year or two by means sufficiently simple: first of all, by availing himself of the prejudice in his favor, so largely diffused amongst the lowest of the Kalmucks, that his own title to the throne, in quality of great-grandson in a direct line from Ajouka, the most illustrious of all the Kalmuck khans, stood upon a better basis than that of Oubacha, who derived from a collateral branch; secondly, with respect to that sole advantage which Oubacha possessed above himself in the ratification of his title, by improving this difference between their situations to the disadvantage of his competitor, as one who had not scrupled to accept that triumph from an alien power at the price of his independence, which he himself (as he would have it understood) disdained to court; thirdly, by his own talents and address, coupled with the ferocious energy of his moral character; fourthly,--and perhaps in an equal degree,--by the criminal facility and good-nature of Oubacha; finally (which is remarkable enough, as illustrating the character of the man), by that very new modelling of the _sarga_, or privy council, which he had used as a principal topic of abuse and malicious insinuation against the Russian government, whilst in reality he first had suggested the alteration to the empress, and he chiefly appropriated the political advantages which it was fitted to yield. For, as he was himself appointed the chief of the _sargatchi_, and as the pensions of the inferior _sargatchi_ passed through his hands, whilst in effect they owed their appointments to his nomination, it may be easily supposed that whatever power existed in the state capable of controlling the khan, being held by the _sarga_ under its new organization, and this body being completely under his influence, the final result was to throw all the functions of the state, whether nominally in the prince or in the council, substantially into the hands of this one man; whilst at the same time, from the strict league which he maintained with the lama, all the thunders of the spiritual power were always ready to come in aid of the magistrate or to supply his incapacity in cases which he could not reach. But the time was now rapidly approaching for the mighty experiment. The day was drawing near on which the signal was to be given for raising the standard of revolt, and, by a combined movement on both sides of the Wolga, for spreading the smoke of one vast conflagration that should wrap in a common blaze their own huts and the stately cities of their enemies over the breadth and length of those great provinces in which their flocks were dispersed. The year of the _tiger_ was now within one little month of its commencement. The fifth morning of that year was fixed for the fatal day when the fortunes and happiness of a whole nation were to be put upon the hazard of a dicer's throw; and, as yet, that nation was in profound ignorance of the whole plan. The khan, such was the kindness of his nature, could not bring himself to make the revelation so urgently required. It was clear, however, that this could not be delayed; and Zebek-Dorchi took the task willingly upon himself. But where or how should this notification be made, so as to exclude Russian hearers? After some deliberation, the following plan was adopted: Couriers, it was contrived, should arrive in furious haste, one upon the heels of another, reporting a sudden inroad of the Kirghises and Bashkirs upon the Kalmuck lands at a point distant about one hundred and twenty miles. Thither all the Kalmuck families, according to immemorial custom, were required to send a separate representative; and there, accordingly, within three days, all appeared. The distance, the solitary ground appointed for the rendezvous, the rapidity of the march, all tended to make it almost certain that no Russian could be present. Zebek-Dorchi then came forward. He did not waste many words upon rhetoric. He unfurled an immense sheet of parchment, visible from the outermost distance at which any of this vast crowd could stand. The total number amounted to eighty thousand: all saw, and many heard. They were told of the oppressions of Russia; of her pride and haughty disdain, evidenced towards them by a thousand acts; of her contempt for their religion; of her determination to reduce them to absolute slavery; of the preliminary measures she had already taken by erecting forts upon many of the great rivers of their neighborhood; of the ulterior intentions she thus announced to circumscribe their pastoral lands, until they would all be obliged to renounce their flocks, and to collect in towns like Sarepta, there to pursue mechanical and servile trades of shoemaker, tailor, and weaver, such as the freeborn Tartar had always disdained. "Then, again," said the subtle prince, "she increases her military levies upon our population every year. We pour out our blood as young men in her defence, or more often in support of her insolent aggressions; and, as old men, we reap nothing from our sufferings nor benefit by our survivorship where so many are sacrificed." At this point of his harangue Zebek produced several papers (forged, as it is generally believed, by himself and the lama), containing projects of the Russian court for a general transfer of the eldest sons, taken _en masse_ from the greatest Kalmuck families, to the imperial court. "Now, let this be once accomplished," he argued, "and there is an end of all useful resistance from that day forwards. Petitions we might make, or even remonstrances; as men of words, we might play a bold part; but for deeds, for that sort of language by which our ancestors were used to speak, holding us by such a chain, Russia would make a jest of our wishes, knowing full well that we should not dare to make any effectual movement." Having thus sufficiently roused the angry passions of his vast audience, and having alarmed their fears by this pretended scheme against their first-born (an artifice which was indispensable to his purpose, because it met beforehand _every_ form of amendment to his proposal coming from the more moderate nobles, who would not otherwise have failed to insist upon trying the effect of bold addresses to the empress before resorting to any desperate extremity), Zebek-Dorchi opened his scheme of revolt, and, if so, of instant revolt: since any preparations reported at St. Petersburg would be a signal for the armies of Russia to cross into such positions from all parts of Asia as would effectually intercept their march. It is remarkable, however, that, with all his audacity and his reliance upon the momentary excitement of the Kalmucks, the subtle prince did not venture at this stage of his seduction to make so startling a proposal as that of a flight to China. All that he held out for the present was a rapid march to the Temba or some other great river, which they were to cross, and to take up a strong position on the farther bank, from which, as from a post of conscious security, they could hold a bolder language to the czarina, and one which would have a better chance of winning a favorable audience. These things, in the irritated condition of the simple Tartars, passed by acclamation; and all returned homewards to push forward with the most furious speed the preparations for their awful undertaking. Rapid and energetic these of necessity were; and in that degree they became noticeable and manifest to the Russians who happened to be intermingled with the different hordes, either on commercial errands or as agents officially from the Russian government,--some in a financial, others in a diplomatic character. Amongst these last (indeed, at the head of them) was a Russian of some distinction, by name Kichinskoi,--a man memorable for his vanity, and memorable also as one of the many victims to the Tartar revolution. This Kichinskoi had been sent by the empress as her envoy to overlook the conduct of the Kalmucks. He was styled the _grand pristaw_, or great commissioner, and was universally known amongst the Tartar tribes by this title. His mixed character of ambassador and of political _surveillant_, combined with the dependent state of the Kalmucks, gave him a real weight in the Tartar councils, and might have given him a far greater had not his outrageous self-conceit and his arrogant confidence in his own authority, as due chiefly to his personal qualities for command, led him into such harsh displays of power and menaces so odious to the Tartar pride as very soon made him an object of their profoundest malice. He had publicly insulted the khan; and upon making a communication to him to the effect that some reports began to circulate, and even to reach the empress, of a design in agitation to fly from the imperial dominions, he had ventured to say, "But this you dare not attempt. I laugh at such rumors; yes, khan, I laugh at them to the empress; for you are a chained bear, and that you know." The khan turned away on his heel with marked disdain; and the pristaw, foaming at the mouth, continued to utter, amongst those of the khan's attendants who stayed behind to catch his real sentiments in a moment of unguarded passion, all that the blindest frenzy of rage could suggest to the most presumptuous of fools. It was now ascertained that suspicions _had_ arisen; but at the same time it was ascertained that the pristaw spoke no more than the truth in representing himself to have discredited these suspicions. The fact was, that the mere infatuation of vanity made him believe that nothing could go on undetected by his all-piercing sagacity, and that no rebellion could prosper when rebuked by his commanding presence. The Tartars, therefore, pursued their preparations, confiding in the obstinate blindness of the grand pristaw, as in their perfect safeguard. And such it proved, to his own ruin as well as that of myriads beside. Christmas arrived; and a little before that time courier upon courier came dropping in, one upon the very heels of another, to St. Petersburg, assuring the czarina that beyond all doubt the Kalmucks were in the very crisis of departure. These despatches came from the governor of Astrachan, and copies were instantly forwarded to Kichinskoi. Now, it happened that between this governor--a Russian named Beketoff--and the pristaw had been an ancient feud. The very name of Beketoff inflamed his resentment; and no sooner did he see that hated name attached to the despatch than he felt himself confirmed in his former views with tenfold bigotry, and wrote instantly, in terms of the most pointed ridicule, against the new alarmist, pledging his own head upon the visionariness of his alarms. Beketoff, however, was not to be put down by a few hard words or by ridicule. He persisted in his statements. The Russian ministry were confounded by the obstinacy of the disputants; and some were beginning even to treat the governor of Astrachan as a bore and as the dupe of his own nervous terrors, when the memorable day arrived, the fatal 5th of January, which forever terminated the dispute and put a seal upon the earthly hopes and fortunes of unnumbered myriads. The governor of Astrachan was the first to hear the news. Stung by the mixed furies of jealousy, of triumphant vengeance, and of anxious ambition, he sprang into his sledge, and, at the rate of three hundred miles a day, pursued his route to St. Petersburg, rushed into the imperial presence, announced the total realization of his worst predictions, and upon the confirmation of this intelligence by subsequent despatches from many different posts on the Wolga, he received an imperial commission to seize the person of his deluded enemy and to keep him in strict captivity. These orders were eagerly fulfilled; and the unfortunate Kichinskoi soon afterwards expired of grief and mortification in the gloomy solitude of a dungeon,--a victim to his own immeasurable vanity and the blinding self-delusions of a presumption that refused all warning. The governor of Astrachan had been but too faithful a prophet. Perhaps even _he_ was surprised at the suddenness with which the verification followed his reports. Precisely on the 5th of January, the day so solemnly appointed under religious sanctions by the lama, the Kalmucks on the east bank of the Wolga were seen at the earliest dawn of day assembling by troops and squadrons and in the tumultuous movement of some great morning of battle. Tens of thousands continued moving off the ground at every half-hour's interval. Women and children, to the amount of two hundred thousand and upwards, were placed upon wagons or upon camels and drew off by masses of twenty thousand at once, placed under suitable escorts, and continually swelled in numbers by other outlying bodies of the horde who kept falling in at various distances upon the first and second day's march. From sixty to eighty thousand of those who were the best mounted stayed behind the rest of the tribes, with purposes of devastation and plunder more violent than prudence justified or the amiable character of the khan could be supposed to approve. But in this, as in other instances, he was completely overruled by the malignant counsels of Zebek-Dorchi. The first tempest of the desolating fury of the Tartars discharged itself upon their own habitations. But this, as cutting off all infirm looking backward from the hardships of their march, had been thought so necessary a measure by all the chieftains that even Oubacha himself was the first to authorize the act by his own example. He seized a torch, previously prepared with materials the most durable as well as combustible, and steadily applied it to the timbers of his own palace. Nothing was saved from the general wreck except the portable part of the domestic utensils and that part of the woodwork which could be applied to the manufacture of the long Tartar lances. This chapter in their memorable day's work being finished, and the whole of their villages throughout a district of ten thousand square miles in one simultaneous blaze, the Tartars waited for further orders. These, it was intended, should have taken a character of valedictory vengeance, and thus have left behind to the czarina a dreadful commentary upon the main motives of their flight. It was the purpose of Zebek-Dorchi that all the Russian towns, churches, and buildings of every description should be given up to pillage and destruction, and such treatment applied to the defenceless inhabitants as might naturally be expected from a fierce people already infuriated by the spectacle of their own outrages and by the bloody retaliations which they must necessarily have provoked. This part of the tragedy, however, was happily intercepted by a providential disappointment at the very crisis of departure. It has been mentioned already that the motive for selecting the depth of winter as the season of flight (which otherwise was obviously the very worst possible) had been the impossibility of effecting a junction sufficiently rapid with the tribes on the west of the Wolga, in the absence of bridges, unless by a natural bridge of ice. For this one advantage the Kalmuck leaders had consented to aggravate by a thousand-fold the calamities inevitable to a rapid flight over boundless tracts of country with women, children, and herds of cattle,--for this one single advantage; and yet, after all, it was lost. The reason never has been explained satisfactorily; but the fact was such. Some have said that the signals were not properly concerted for marking the moment of absolute departure; that is, for signifying whether the settled intention of the eastern Kalmucks might not have been suddenly interrupted by adverse intelligence. Others have supposed that the ice might not be equally strong on both sides of the river, and might even be generally insecure for the treading of heavy and heavily laden animals such as camels. But the prevailing notion is, that some accidental movements on the 3rd and 4th of January of Russian troops in the neighborhood of the western Kalmucks, though really having no reference to them or their plans, had been construed into certain signs that all was discovered, and that the prudence of the western chieftains, who, from situation, had never been exposed to those intrigues which Zebek-Dorchi had practised upon the pride of the eastern tribes, now stepped in to save their people from ruin. Be the cause what it might, it is certain that the western Kalmucks were in some way prevented from forming the intended junction with their brethren of the opposite bank; and the result was, that at least one hundred thousand of these Tartars were left behind in Russia. This accident it was which saved their Russian neighbors universally from the desolation which else awaited them. One general massacre and conflagration would assuredly have surprised them, to the utter extermination of their property, their houses, and themselves, had it not been for this disappointment. But the eastern chieftains did not dare to put to hazard the safety of their brethren under the first impulse of the czarina's vengeance for so dreadful a tragedy; for, as they were well aware of too many circumstances by which she might discover the concurrence of the western people in the general scheme of revolt, they justly feared that she would thence infer their concurrence also in the bloody events which marked its outset. Little did the western Kalmucks guess what reasons they also had for gratitude on account of an interposition so unexpected, and which, at the moment, they so generally deplored. Could they but have witnessed the thousandth part of the sufferings which overtook their eastern brethren in the first month of their sad flight, they would have blessed Heaven for their own narrow escape; and yet these sufferings of the first month were but a prelude or foretaste comparatively slight of those which afterwards succeeded. For now began to unroll the most awful series of calamities and the most extensive which is anywhere recorded to have visited the sons and daughters of men. It is possible that the sudden inroads of destroying nations, such as the Huns, or the Avars, or the Mongol Tartars, may have inflicted misery as extensive; but there the misery and the desolation would be sudden, like the flight of volleying lightning. Those who were spared at first would generally be spared to the end; those who perished would perish instantly. It is possible that the French retreat from Moscow may have made some nearer approach to this calamity in duration, though still a feeble and miniature approach; for the French sufferings did not commence in good earnest until about one month from the time of leaving Moscow; and though it is true that afterwards the vials of wrath were emptied upon the devoted army for six or seven weeks in succession, yet what is that to this Kalmuck tragedy, which lasted for more than as many months? But the main feature of horror, by which the Tartar march was distinguished from the French, lies in the accompaniment of women and children. There were both, it is true, with the French army, but so few as to bear no visible proportion to the total numbers concerned. The French, in short, were merely an army,--a host of professional destroyers, whose regular trade was bloodshed and whose regular element was danger and suffering; but the Tartars were a nation carrying along with them more than two hundred and fifty thousand women and children, utterly unequal, for the most part, to any contest with the calamities before them. The children of Israel were in the same circumstances as to the accompaniment of their families; but they were released from the pursuit of their enemies in a very early stage of their flight; and their subsequent residence in the desert was not a march, but a continued halt, and under a continued interposition of Heaven for their comfortable support. Earthquakes, again, however comprehensive in their ravages, are shocks of a moment's duration. A much nearer approach made to the wide range and the long duration of the Kalmuck tragedy may have been in a pestilence such as that which visited Athens in the Peloponnesian war or London in the reign of Charles II. There, also, the martyrs were counted by myriads, and the period of the desolation was counted by months. But, after all, the total amount of destruction was on a smaller scale; and there was this feature of alleviation to the _conscious_ pressure of the calamity,--that the misery was withdrawn from public notice into private chambers and hospitals. The siege of Jerusalem by Vespasian and his son, taken in its entire circumstances, comes nearest of all for breadth and depth of suffering, for duration, for the exasperation of the suffering from without by internal feuds, and, finally, for that last most appalling expression of the furnace heat of the anguish in its power to extinguish the natural affections even of maternal love. But, after all, each case had circumstances of romantic misery peculiar to itself,--circumstances without precedent, and (wherever human nature is ennobled by Christianity) it may be confidently hoped never to be repeated. The first point to be reached, before any hope of repose could be encouraged, was the river Jaik. This was not above three hundred miles from the main point of departure on the Wolga; and, if the march thither was to be a forced one and a severe one, it was alleged, on the other hand, that the suffering would be the more brief and transient; one summary exertion, not to be repeated, and all was achieved. Forced the march was, and severe beyond example,--there the forewarning proved correct; but the promised rest proved a mere phantom of the wilderness,--a visionary rainbow, which fled before their hopesick eyes, across these interminable solitudes, for seven months of hardship and calamity, without a pause. These sufferings, by their very nature and the circumstances under which they arose, were (like the scenery of the _steppes_) somewhat monotonous in their coloring and external features: what variety, however, there was will be most naturally exhibited by tracing historically the successive stages of the general misery exactly as it unfolded itself under the double agency of weakness still increasing from within and hostile pressure from without. Viewed in this manner, under the real order of development, it is remarkable that these sufferings of the Tartars, though under the moulding hands of accident, arrange themselves almost with a scenical propriety. They seem combined as with the skill of an artist, the intensity of the misery advancing regularly with the advances of the march, and the stages of the calamity corresponding to the stages of the route; so that, upon raising the curtain which veils the great catastrophe, we behold one vast climax of anguish, towering upwards by regular gradations as if constructed artificially for picturesque effect,--a result which might not have been surprising had it been reasonable to anticipate the same rate of speed, and even an accelerated rate, as prevailing through the later stages of the expedition. But it seemed, on the contrary, most reasonable to calculate upon a continual decrement in the rate of motion according to the increasing distance from the head-quarters of the pursuing enemy. This calculation, however, was defeated by the extraordinary circumstance that the Russian armies did not begin to close in very fiercely upon the Kalmucks until after they had accomplished a distance of full two thousand miles. One thousand miles farther on the assaults became even more tumultuous and murderous; and already the great shadows of the Chinese Wall were dimly descried, when the frenzy and _acharnement_ of the pursuers and the bloody desperation of the miserable fugitives had reached its uttermost extremity. Let us briefly rehearse the main stages of the misery and trace the ascending steps of the tragedy according to the great divisions of the route marked out by the central rivers of Asia. The first stage, we have already said, was from the Wolga to the Jaik; the distance about three hundred miles; the time allowed seven days. For the first week, therefore, the rate of marching averaged about forty-three English miles a day. The weather was cold, but bracing; and, at a more moderate pace, this part of the journey might have been accomplished without much distress by a people as hardy as the Kalmucks. As it was, the cattle suffered greatly from over-driving; milk began to fail even for the children; the sheep perished by wholesale; and the children themselves were saved only by the innumerable camels. The Cossacks who dwelt upon the banks of the Jaik were the first among the subjects of Russia to come into collision with the Kalmucks. Great was their surprise at the suddenness of the irruption, and great also their consternation; for, according to their settled custom, by far the greater part of their number was absent during the winter months at the fisheries upon the Caspian. Some who were liable to surprise at the most exposed points fled in crowds to the fortress of Koulagina, which was immediately invested and summoned by Oubacha. He had, however, in his train only a few light pieces of artillery; and the Russian commandant at Koulagina, being aware of the hurried circumstances in which the khan was placed, and that he stood upon the very edge, as it were, of a renewed flight, felt encouraged by these considerations to a more obstinate resistance than might else have been advisable with an enemy so little disposed to observe the usages of civilized warfare. The period of his anxiety was not long. On the fifth day of the siege he descried from the walls a succession of Tartar couriers, mounted upon fleet Bactrian camels, crossing the vast plains around the fortress at a furious pace and riding into the Kalmuck encampment at various points. Great agitation appeared immediately to follow. Orders were soon after despatched in all directions; and it became speedily known that upon a distant flank of the Kalmuck movement a bloody and exterminating battle had been fought the day before, in which one entire tribe of the khan's dependants, numbering not less than nine thousand fighting men, had perished to the last man. This was the _ouloss_, or clan, called _Feka-Zechorr_, between whom and the Cossacks there was a feud of ancient standing. In selecting, therefore, the points of attack, on occasion of the present hasty inroad, the Cossack chiefs were naturally eager so to direct their efforts as to combine with the service of the empress some gratification to their own party hatreds, more especially as the present was likely to be their final opportunity for revenge if the Kalmuck evasion should prosper. Having, therefore, concentrated as large a body of Cossack cavalry as circumstances allowed, they attacked the hostile _ouloss_ with a precipitation which denied to it all means for communicating with Oubacha; for the necessity of commanding an ample range of pasturage, to meet the necessities of their vast flocks and herds, had separated this _ouloss_ from the khan's head-quarters by an interval of eighty miles: and thus it was, and not from oversight, that it came to be thrown entirely upon its own resources. These had proved insufficient. Retreat, from the exhausted state of their horses and camels, no less than from the prodigious encumbrances of their live stock, was absolutely out of the question. Quarter was disdained on the one side, and would not have been granted on the other; and thus it had happened that the setting sun of that one day (the thirteenth from the first opening of the revolt) threw his parting rays upon the final agonies of an ancient _ouloss_, stretched upon a bloody field, who on that day's dawning had held and styled themselves an independent nation. Universal consternation was diffused through the wide borders of the khan's encampment by this disastrous intelligence, not so much on account of the numbers slain, or the total extinction of a powerful ally, as because the position of the Cossack force was likely to put to hazard the future advances of the Kalmucks, or at least to retard and hold them in check until the heavier columns of the Russian army should arrive upon their flanks. The siege of Koulagina was instantly raised; and that signal, so fatal to the happiness of the women and their children, once again resounded through the tents,--the signal for flight, and this time for a flight more rapid than ever. About one hundred and fifty miles ahead of their present position there arose a tract of hilly country, forming a sort of margin to the vast, sealike expanse of champaign savannas, steppes, and occasionally of sandy deserts, which stretched away on each side of this margin both eastwards and westwards. Pretty nearly in the centre of this hilly range lay a narrow defile, through which passed the nearest and the most practicable route to the river Torgai (the farther bank of which river offered the next great station of security for a general halt). It was the more essential to gain this pass before the Cossacks, inasmuch as not only would the delay in forcing the pass give time to the Russian pursuing columns for combining their attacks and for bringing up their artillery, but also because (even if all enemies in pursuit were thrown out of the question) it was held, by those best acquainted with the difficult and obscure geography of these pathless steppes, that the loss of this one narrow strait amongst the hills would have the effect of throwing them (as their only alternative in a case where so wide a sweep of pasturage was required) upon a circuit of at least five hundred miles extra; besides that, after all, this circuitous route would carry them to the Torgai at a point ill fitted for the passage of their heavy baggage. The defile in the hills, therefore, it was resolved to gain; and yet, unless they moved upon it with the velocity of light cavalry, there was little chance but it would be found preoccupied by the Cossacks. They, it is true, had suffered greatly in the recent sanguinary action with their enemies; but the excitement of victory, and the intense sympathy with their unexampled triumph, had again swelled their ranks, and would probably act with the force of a vortex to draw in their simple countrymen from the Caspian. The question, therefore, of preoccupation was reduced to a race. The Cossacks were marching upon an oblique line not above fifty miles longer than that which led to the same point from the Kalmuck head-quarters before Koulagina; and therefore, without the most furious haste on the part of the Kalmucks, there was not a chance for them, burdened and "trashed" as they were, to anticipate so agile a light cavalry as the Cossacks in seizing this important pass. Dreadful were the feelings of the poor women on hearing this exposition of the case; for they easily understood that too capital an interest (the _summa rerum_) was now at stake to allow of any regard to minor interests, or what would be considered such in their present circumstances. The dreadful week already passed--their inauguration in misery--was yet fresh in their remembrance. The scars of suffering were impressed not only upon their memories, but upon their very persons and the persons of their children; and they knew that, where no speed had much chance of meeting the cravings of the chieftains, no test would be accepted, short of absolute exhaustion, that as much had been accomplished as could be accomplished. Weseloff, the Russian captive, has recorded the silent wretchedness with which the women and elder boys assisted in drawing the tent ropes. On the 5th of January all had been animation and the joyousness of indefinite expectation: now, on the contrary, a brief but bitter experience had taught them to take an amended calculation of what it was that lay before them. One whole day and far into the succeeding night had the renewed flight continued: the sufferings had been greater than before; for the cold had been more intense, and many perished out of the living creatures through every class except only the camels, whose powers of endurance seemed equally adapted to cold and heat. The second morning, however, brought an alleviation to the distress. Snow had begun to fall; and, though not deep at present, it was easily foreseen that it soon would be so, and that, as a halt would in that case become unavoidable, no plan could be better than that of staying where they were, especially as the same cause would check the advance of the Cossacks. Here, then, was the last interval of comfort which gleamed upon the unhappy nation during their whole migration. For ten days the snow continued to fall with little intermission. At the end of that time keen, bright, frosty weather succeeded; the drifting had ceased. In three days the smooth expanse became firm enough to support the treading of the camels, and the flight was recommenced. But during the halt much domestic comfort had been enjoyed, and, for the last time, universal plenty. The cows and oxen had perished in such vast numbers on the previous marches, that an order was now issued to turn what remained to account by slaughtering the whole, and salting whatever part should be found to exceed the immediate consumption. This measure led to a scene of general banqueting, and even of festivity, amongst all who were not incapacitated for joyous emotions by distress of mind, by grief for the unhappy experience of the few last days, and by anxiety for the too gloomy future. Seventy thousand persons of all ages had already perished, exclusively of the many thousand allies who had been cut down by the Cossack sabre; and the losses in reversion were likely to be many more; for rumors began now to arrive from all quarters, by the mounted couriers whom the khan had despatched to the rear and to each flank as well as in advance, that large masses of the imperial troops were converging from all parts of Central Asia to the fords of the river Torgai, as the most convenient point for intercepting the flying tribes; and it was already well known that a powerful division was close in their rear, and was retarded only by the numerous artillery which had been judged necessary to support their operations. New motives were thus daily arising for quickening the motions of the wretched Kalmucks and for exhausting those who were previously but too much exhausted. It was not until the 2d day of February that the khan's advanced guard came in sight of Ouchim, the defile among the hills of Moulgaldchares, in which they anticipated so bloody an opposition from the Cossacks. A pretty large body of these light cavalry had, in fact, preoccupied the pass by some hours; but the khan, having two great advantages,--namely, a strong body of infantry, who had been conveyed by sections of five on about two hundred camels, and some pieces of light artillery which he had not yet been forced to abandon,--soon began to make a serious impression upon this unsupported detachment, and they would probably at any rate have retired; but, at the very moment when they were making some dispositions in that view, Zebek-Dorchi appeared upon their rear with a body of trained riflemen who had distinguished themselves in the war with Turkey. These men had contrived to crawl unobserved over the cliffs which skirted the ravine, availing themselves of the dry beds of the summer torrents and other inequalities of the ground to conceal their movement. Disorder and trepidation ensued instantly in the Cossack files. The khan, who had been waiting with the _élite_ of his heavy cavalry, charged furiously upon them. Total overthrow followed to the Cossacks, and a slaughter such as in some measure avenged the recent bloody extermination of their allies, the ancient _ouloss_ of Feka-Zechorr. The slight horses of the Cossacks were unable to support the weight of heavy Polish dragoons and a body of trained _cameleers_ (that is, cuirassiers mounted on camels). Hardy they were, but not strong, nor a match for their antagonists in weight; and their extraordinary efforts through the last few days to gain their present position had greatly diminished their powers for effecting an escape. Very few, in fact, _did_ escape; and the bloody day of Ouchim became as memorable amongst the Cossacks as that which, about twenty days before, had signalized the complete annihilation of the Feka-Zechorr. The road was now open to the river Igritch, and as yet even far beyond it to the Torgau; but how long this state of things would continue was every day more doubtful. Certain intelligence was now received that a large Russian army, well appointed in every arm, was advancing upon the Torgau under the command of General Traubenberg. This officer was to be joined on his route by ten thousand Bashkirs and pretty nearly the same amount of Kirghises,--both hereditary enemies of the Kalmucks,--both exasperated to a point of madness by the bloody trophies which Oubacha and Momotbacha had, in late years, won from such of their compatriots as served under the sultan. The czarina's yoke these wild nations bore with submissive patience, but not the hands by which it had been imposed; and accordingly, catching with eagerness at the present occasion offered to their vengeance, they sent an assurance to the czarina of their perfect obedience to her commands, and at the same time a message significantly declaring in what spirit they meant to execute them, namely, "that they would not trouble her Majesty with prisoners." Here then arose, as before with the Cossacks, a race for the Kalmucks with the regular armies of Russia, and concurrently with nations as fierce and semi-humanized as themselves, besides that they were stung into threefold activity by the furies of mortified pride and military abasement under the eyes of the Turkish sultan. The forces, and more especially the artillery, of Russia, were far too overwhelming to permit the thought of a regular opposition in pitched battles, even with a less dilapidated state of their resources than they could reasonably expect at the period of their arrival on the Torgau. In their speed lay their only hope,--in strength of foot, as before, and not in strength of arm. Onward, therefore, the Kalmucks pressed, marking the lines of their wide-extending march over the sad solitudes of the steppes by a never-ending chain of corpses. The old and the young, the sick man on his couch, the mother with her baby,--all were left behind. Sights such as these, with the many rueful aggravations incident to the helpless condition of infancy,--of disease and of female weakness abandoned to the wolves amidst a howling wilderness,--continued to track their course through a space of full two thousand miles; for so much at the least it was likely to prove, including the circuits to which they were often compelled by rivers or hostile tribes, from the point of starting on the Wolga until they could reach their destined halting-ground on the east bank of the Torgau. For the first seven weeks of this march their sufferings had been imbittered by the excessive severity of the cold; and every night--so long as wood was to be had for fires, either from the lading of the camels, or from the desperate sacrifice of their baggage-wagons, or (as occasionally happened) from the forests which skirted the banks of the many rivers which crossed their path--no spectacle was more frequent than that of a circle, composed of men, women, and children, gathered by hundreds round a central fire, all dead and stiff at the return of morning light. Myriads were left behind from pure exhaustion, of whom none had a chance, under the combined evils which beset them, of surviving through the next twenty-four hours. Frost, however, and snow at length ceased to persecute; the vast extent of the march at length brought them into more genial latitudes; and the unusual duration of the march was gradually bringing them into the more genial seasons of the year. Two thousand miles had at least been traversed; February, March, April, were gone; the balmy month of May had opened; vernal sights and sounds came from every side to comfort the heart-weary travellers; and at last, in the latter end of May, they crossed the Torgau, and took up a position where they hoped to find liberty to repose themselves for many weeks in comfort as well as in security, and to draw such supplies from the fertile neighborhood as might restore their shattered forces to a condition for executing, with less of wreck and ruin, the large remainder of the journey. Yes; it was true that two thousand miles of wandering had been completed, but in a period of nearly five months, and with the terrific sacrifice of at least two hundred and fifty thousand souls, to say nothing of herds and flocks past all reckoning. These had all perished,--ox, cow, horse, mule, ass, sheep, or goat; not one survived,--only the camels. These arid and adust creatures, looking like the mummies of some antediluvian animals, without the affections or sensibilities of flesh and blood,--these only still erected their speaking eyes to the eastern heavens, and had to all appearance come out from this long tempest of trial unscathed and unharmed. The khan, knowing how much he was individually answerable for the misery which had been sustained, must have wept tears even more bitter than those of Xerxes when he threw his eyes over the myriads whom he had assembled; for the tears of Xerxes were unmingled with compunction. Whatever amends were in his power he resolved to make by sacrifices to the general good of all personal regards; and accordingly, even at this point of their advance, he once more deliberately brought under review the whole question of the revolt. The question was formally debated before the council, whether, even at this point, they should untread their steps, and, throwing themselves upon the czarina's mercy, return to their old allegiance. In that case, Oubacha professed himself willing to become the scapegoat for the general transgression. This, he argued, was no fantastic scheme, but even easy of accomplishment; for the unlimited and sacred power of the khan, so well known to the empress, made it absolutely iniquitous to attribute any separate responsibility to the people. Upon the khan rested the guilt,--upon the khan would descend the imperial vengeance. This proposal was applauded for its generosity, but was energetically opposed by Zebek-Dorchi. Were they to lose the whole journey of two thousand miles? Was their misery to perish without fruit? True it was that they had yet reached only the half-way house; but, in that respect, the motives were evenly balanced for retreat or for advance. Either way they would have pretty nearly the same distance to traverse, but with this difference,--that, forwards, their route lay through lands comparatively fertile; backwards, through a blasted wilderness, rich only in memorial of their sorrow, and hideous to Kalmuck eyes by the trophies of their calamity. Besides, though the empress might accept an excuse for the past, would she the less forbear to suspect for the future? The czarina's _pardon_ they might obtain; but could they ever hope to recover her _confidence_? Doubtless there would now be a standing presumption against them, an immortal ground of jealousy; and a jealous government would be but another name for a harsh one. Finally, whatever motives there ever had been for the revolt surely remained unimpaired by anything that had occurred. In reality, the revolt was, after all, no revolt, but (strictly speaking) a return to their old allegiance; since, not above one hundred and fifty years ago (namely, in the year 1616), their ancestors had revolted from the Emperor of China. They had now tried both governments; and for them China was the land of promise, and Russia the house of bondage. Spite, however, of all that Zebek could say or do, the yearning of the people was strongly in behalf of the khan's proposal; the pardon of their prince, they persuaded themselves, would be readily conceded by the empress; and there is little doubt that they would at this time have thrown themselves gladly upon the imperial mercy; when suddenly all was defeated by the arrival of two envoys from Traubenberg. This general had reached the fortress of Orsk, after a very painful march, on the 12th of April; thence he set forwards towards Oriembourg, which he reached upon the 1st of June, having been joined on his route at various times through the month of May by the Kirghises and a corps of ten thousand Bashkirs. From Oriembourg he sent forward his official offers to the khan, which were harsh and peremptory, holding out no specific stipulations as to pardon or impunity, and exacting unconditional submission as the preliminary price of any cessation from military operations. The personal character of Traubenberg, which was anything but energetic, and the condition of his army, disorganized in a great measure by the length and severity of the march, made it probable that, with a little time for negotiation, a more conciliatory tone would have been assumed. But, unhappily for all parties, sinister events occurred in the mean time, such as effectually put an end to every hope of the kind. The two envoys sent forward by Traubenberg had reported to this officer that a distance of only ten days' march lay between his own head-quarters and those of the khan. Upon this fact transpiring, the Kirghises, by their prince Nourali, and the Bashkirs entreated the Russian general to advance without delay. Once having placed his cannon in position, so as to command the Kalmuck camp, the fate of the rebel khan and his people would be in his own hands, and they would themselves form his advanced guard. Traubenberg, however,--_why_ has not been certainly explained,--refused to march, grounding his refusal upon the condition of his army and their absolute need of refreshment. Long and fierce was the altercation; but at length, seeing no chance of prevailing, and dreading above all other events the escape of their detested enemy, the ferocious Bashkirs went off in a body by forced marches. In six days they reached the Torgau, crossed by swimming their horses, and fell upon the Kalmucks, who were dispersed for many a league in search of food or provender for their camels. The first day's action was one vast succession of independent skirmishes, diffused over a field of thirty to forty miles in extent; one party often breaking up into three or four, and again (according to the accidents of ground) three or four blending into one; flight and pursuit, rescue and total overthrow, going on simultaneously, under all varieties of form, in all quarters of the plain. The Bashkirs had found themselves obliged, by the scattered state of the Kalmucks, to split up into innumerable sections; and thus, for some hours, it had been impossible for the most practised eye to collect the general tendency of the day's fortune. Both the khan and Zebek-Dorchi were at one moment made prisoners, and more than once in imminent danger of being cut down; but at length Zebek succeeded in rallying a strong column of infantry, which, with the support of the camel corps on each flank, compelled the Bashkirs to retreat. Clouds, however, of these wild cavalry continued to arrive through the next two days and nights, followed or accompanied by the Kirghises. These being viewed as the advanced parties of Traubenberg's army, the Kalmuck chieftains saw no hope of safety but in flight; and in this way it happened that a retreat, which had so recently been brought to a pause, was resumed at the very moment when the unhappy fugitives were anticipating a deep repose, without further molestation, the whole summer through. It seemed as though every variety of wretchedness were predestined to the Kalmucks, and as if their sufferings were incomplete unless they were rounded and matured by all that the most dreadful agencies of summer's heat could superadd to those of frost and winter. To this sequel of their story we shall immediately revert, after first noticing a little romantic episode which occurred at this point between Oubacha and his unprincipled cousin Zebek-Dorchi. There was, at the time of the Kalmuck flight from the Wolga, a Russian gentleman of some rank at the court of the khan, whom, for political reasons, it was thought necessary to carry along with them as a captive. For some weeks his confinement had been very strict, and in one or two instances cruel; but, as the increasing distance was continually diminishing the chances of escape, and perhaps, also, as the misery of the guards gradually withdrew their attention from all minor interests to their own personal sufferings, the vigilance of the custody grew more and more relaxed; until at length, upon a petition to the khan, Mr. Weseloff was formally restored to liberty; and it was understood that he might use his liberty in whatever way he chose, even for returning to Russia, if that should be his wish. Accordingly, he was making active preparations for his journey to St. Petersburg, when it occurred to Zebek-Dorchi that not improbably, in some of the battles which were then anticipated with Traubenberg, it might happen to them to lose some prisoner of rank, in which case the Russian Weseloff would be a pledge in their hands for negotiating an exchange. Upon this plea, to his own severe affliction, the Russian was detained until the further pleasure of the khan. The khan's name, indeed, was used through the whole affair, but, as it seemed, with so little concurrence on his part, that, when Weseloff in a private audience humbly remonstrated upon the injustice done him and the cruelty of thus sporting with his feelings by setting him at liberty, and, as it were, tempting him into dreams of home and restored happiness only for the purpose of blighting them, the good-natured prince disclaimed all participation in the affair, and went so far in proving his sincerity as even to give him permission to effect his escape; and, as a ready means of commencing it without raising suspicion, the khan mentioned to Mr. Weseloff that he had just then received a message from the hetman of the Bashkirs, soliciting a private interview on the banks of the Torgau at a spot pointed out. That interview was arranged for the coming night; and Mr. Weseloff might go in the khan's _suite_, which on either side was not to exceed three persons. Weseloff was a prudent man, acquainted with the world, and he read treachery in the very outline of this scheme, as stated by the khan,--treachery against the khan's person. He mused a little, and then communicated so much of his suspicions to the khan as might put him on his guard; but, upon further consideration, he begged leave to decline the honor of accompanying the khan. The fact was, that three Kalmucks, who had strong motives for returning to their countrymen on the west bank of the Wolga, guessing the intentions of Weseloff, had offered to join him in his escape. These men the khan would probably find himself obliged to countenance in their project; so that it became a point of honor with Weseloff to conceal their intentions, and therefore to accomplish the evasion from the camp (of which the first steps only would be hazardous), without risking the notice of the khan. The district in which they were now encamped abounded through many hundred miles with wild horses of a docile and beautiful breed. Each of the four fugitives had caught from seven to ten of these spirited creatures in the course of the last few days. This raised no suspicion, for the rest of the Kalmucks had been making the same sort of provision against the coming toils of their remaining route to China. These horses were secured by halters, and hidden about dusk in the thickets which lined the margin of the river. To these thickets, about ten at night, the four fugitives repaired. They took a circuitous path which drew them as little as possible within danger of challenge from any of the outposts or of the patrols which had been established on the quarters where the Bashkirs lay, and in three quarters of an hour they reached the rendezvous. The moon had now risen; the horses were unfastened; and they were in the act of mounting, when the deep silence of the woods was disturbed by a violent uproar and the clashing of arms. Weseloff fancied that he heard the voice of the khan shouting for assistance. He remembered the communication made by that prince in the morning; and, requesting his companions to support him, he rode off in the direction of the sound. A very short distance brought him to an open glade in the wood, where he beheld four men contending with a party of at least nine or ten. Two of the four were dismounted at the very instant of Weseloff's arrival. One of these he recognized almost certainly as the khan, who was fighting hand to hand, but at great disadvantage, with two of the adverse horsemen. Seeing that no time was to be lost, Weseloff fired and brought down one of the two. His companions discharged their carabines at the same moment; and then all rushed simultaneously into the little open area. The thundering sound of about thirty horses, all rushing at once into a narrow space, gave the impression that a whole troop of cavalry was coming down upon the assailants, who accordingly wheeled about and fled with one impulse. Weseloff advanced to the dismounted cavalier, who, as he expected, proved to be the khan. The man whom Weseloff had shot was lying dead; and both were shocked, though Weseloff at least was not surprised, on stooping down and scrutinizing his features, to recognize a well-known confidential servant of Zebek-Dorchi. Nothing was said by either party. The khan rode off, escorted by Weseloff and his companions; and for some time a dead silence prevailed. The situation of Weseloff was delicate and critical. To leave the khan at this point was probably to cancel their recent services; for he might be again crossed on his path, and again attacked by the very party from whom he had just been delivered. Yet, on the other hand, to return to the camp was to endanger the chances of accomplishing the escape. The khan, also, was apparently revolving all this in his mind; for at length he broke silence and said, "I comprehend your situation; and, under other circumstances, I might feel it my duty to detain your companions; but it would ill become me to do so after the important service you have just rendered me. Let us turn a little to the left. There, where you see the watchfire, is an outpost. Attend me so far. I am then safe. You may turn and pursue your enterprise; for the circumstances under which you will appear as my escort are sufficient to shield you from all suspicion for the present. I regret having no better means at my disposal for testifying my gratitude. But, tell me, before we part, was it accident only which led you to my rescue? or had you acquired any knowledge of the plot by which I was decoyed into this snare?" Weseloff answered very candidly that mere accident had brought him to the spot at which he heard the uproar; but that, _having_ heard it, and connecting it with the khan's communication of the morning, he had then designedly gone after the sound in a way which he certainly should not have done at so critical a moment unless in the expectation of finding the khan assaulted by assassins. A few minutes after they reached the outpost at which it became safe to leave the Tartar chieftain; and immediately the four fugitives commenced a flight which is, perhaps, without a parallel in the annals of travelling. Each of them led six or seven horses besides the one he rode; and by shifting from one to the other (like the ancient _desultors_ of the Roman circus), so as never to burden the same horse for more than half an hour at a time, they continued to advance at the rate of two hundred miles in the twenty-four hours for three days consecutively. After that time, considering themselves beyond pursuit, they proceeded less rapidly, though still with a velocity which staggered the belief of Weseloff's friends in after years. He was, however, a man of high principle, and always adhered firmly to the details of his printed report. One of the circumstances there stated is, that they continued to pursue the route by which the Kalmucks had fled, never for an instant finding any difficulty in tracing it by the skeletons and other memorials of their calamities. In particular, he mentions vast heaps of money as part of the valuable property which it had been necessary to sacrifice. These heaps were found lying still untouched in the deserts. From these Weseloff and his companions took as much as they could conveniently carry; and this it was, with the price of their beautiful horses, which they afterwards sold at one of the Russian military settlements for about fifteen pounds apiece, which eventually enabled them to pursue their journey in Russia. This journey, as regarded Weseloff in particular, was closed by a tragical catastrophe. He was at that time young, and the only child of a doting mother. Her affliction under the violent abduction of her son had been excessive, and probably had undermined her constitution. Still she had supported it. Weseloff, giving way to the natural impulses of his filial affection, had imprudently posted through Russia to his mother's house without warning of his approach. He rushed precipitately into her presence; and she, who had stood the shocks of sorrow, was found unequal to the shock of joy too sudden and too acute. She died upon the spot. We now revert to the final scenes of the Kalmuck flight. These it would be useless to pursue circumstantially through the whole two thousand miles of suffering which remained; for the character of that suffering was even more monotonous than on the former half of the flight, but also more severe. Its main elements were excessive heat, with the accompaniments of famine and thirst, but aggravated at every step by the murderous attacks of their cruel enemies, the Bashkirs and the Kirghises. These people, "more fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea," stuck to the unhappy Kalmucks like a swarm of enraged hornets; and very often, whilst _they_ were attacking them in the rear, their advanced parties and flanks were attacked with almost equal fury by the people of the country which they were traversing; and with good reason, since the law of self-preservation had now obliged the fugitive Tartars to plunder provisions and to forage wherever they passed. In this respect their condition was a constant oscillation of wretchedness; for sometimes, pressed by grinding famine, they took a circuit of perhaps a hundred miles, in order to strike into a land rich in the comforts of life. But in such a land they were sure to find a crowded population, of which every arm was raised in unrelenting hostility, with all the advantages of local knowledge, and with constant preoccupation of all the defensible positions, mountain passes, or bridges. Sometimes, again, wearied out with this mode of suffering, they took a circuit of perhaps a hundred miles, in order to strike into a land with few or no inhabitants; but in such a land they were sure to meet absolute starvation. Then, again, whether with or without this plague of starvation, whether with or without this plague of hostility in front, whatever might be the "fierce varieties" of their misery in this respect, no rest ever came to their unhappy rear; _post equitem sedet atra cura_; it was a torment like the undying worm of conscience; and, upon the whole, it presented a spectacle altogether unprecedented in the history of mankind. Private and personal malignity is not unfrequently immortal; but rare indeed is it to find the same pertinacity of malice in a nation. And what imbittered the interest was, that the malice was reciprocal. Thus far the parties met upon equal terms; but that equality only sharpened the sense of their dire inequality as to other circumstances. The Bashkirs were ready to fight "from morn to dewy eve." The Kalmucks, on the contrary, were always obliged to run: was it _from_ their enemies as creatures whom they feared? No; but _towards_ their friends,--towards that final haven of China,--as what was hourly implored by their wives and the tears of their children. But, though they fled unwillingly, too often they fled in vain,--being unwillingly recalled. There lay the torment. Every day the Bashkirs fell upon them; every day the same unprofitable battle was renewed. As a matter of course, the Kalmucks recalled part of their advanced guard to fight them. Every day the battle raged for hours, and uniformly with the same result; for, no sooner did the Bashkirs find themselves too heavily pressed, and that the Kalmuck march had been retarded by some hours, than they retired into the boundless deserts, where all pursuit was hopeless. But if the Kalmucks resolved to press forward, regardless of their enemies, in that case their attacks became so fierce and overwhelming that the general safety seemed likely to be brought into question; nor could any effectual remedy be applied to the case, even for each separate day, except by a most embarrassing halt and by countermarches that, to men in their circumstances, were almost worse than death. It will not be surprising that the irritation of such a systematic persecution, superadded to a previous and hereditary hatred and accompanied by the stinging consciousness of utter impotence as regarded all effectual vengeance, should gradually have inflamed the Kalmuck animosity into the wildest expression of downright madness and frenzy. Indeed, long before the frontiers of China were approached, the hostility of both sides had assumed the appearance much more of a warfare amongst wild beasts than amongst creatures acknowledging the restraints of reason or the claims of a common nature. The spectacle became too atrocious; it was that of a host of lunatics pursued by a host of fiends. * * * * * On a fine morning in early autumn of the year 1771, Kien Long, the Emperor of China, was pursuing his amusements in a wild frontier district lying on the outside of the Great Wall. For many hundred square leagues the country was desolate of inhabitants, but rich in woods of ancient growth and overrun with game of every description. In a central spot of this solitary region the emperor had built a gorgeous hunting-lodge, to which he resorted annually for recreation and relief from the cares of government. Led onwards in pursuit of game, he had rambled to a distance of two hundred miles or more from this lodge, followed at a little distance by a sufficient military escort, and every night pitching his tent in a different situation, until at length he had arrived on the very margin of the vast central deserts of Asia. Here he was standing, by accident, at an opening of his pavilion, enjoying the morning sunshine, when suddenly to the westward there arose a vast, cloudy vapor, which by degrees expanded, mounted, and seemed to be slowly diffusing itself over the whole face of the heavens. By and by this vast sheet of mist began to thicken towards the horizon and to roll forward in billowy volumes. The emperor's suite assembled from all quarters; the silver trumpets were sounded in the rear; and from all the glades and forest avenues began to trot forward towards the pavilion the yagers, half cavalry, half huntsmen, who composed the imperial escort. Conjecture was on the stretch to divine the cause of this phenomenon; and the interest continually increased in proportion as simple curiosity gradually deepened into the anxiety of uncertain danger. At first it had been imagined that some vast troops of deer or other wild animals of the chase had been disturbed in their forest haunts by the emperor's movements, or possibly by wild beasts prowling for prey, and might be fetching a compass by way of re-entering the forest grounds at some remoter points secure from molestation. But this conjecture was dissipated by the slow increase of the cloud and the steadiness of its motion. In the course of two hours the vast phenomenon had advanced to a point which was judged to be within five miles of the spectators; though all calculations of distance were difficult, and often fallacious, when applied to the endless expanses of the Tartar deserts. Through the next hour, during which the gentle morning breeze had a little freshened, the dusty vapor had developed itself far and wide into the appearance of huge aerial draperies, hanging in mighty volumes from the sky to the earth; and at particular points, where the eddies of the breeze acted upon the pendulous skirts of these aerial curtains, rents were perceived, sometimes taking the form of regular arches, portals, and windows, through which began dimly to gleam the heads of camels "indorsed" with human beings, and at intervals the moving of men and horses in tumultuous array, and then through other openings, or vistas, at far-distant points, the flashing of polished arms. But sometimes, as the wind slackened or died away, all those openings, of whatever form, in the cloudy pall, would slowly close, and for a time the whole pageant was shut up from view; although the growing din, the clamors, the shrieks and groans ascending from infuriated myriads, reported, in a language not to be misunderstood, what was going on behind the cloudy screen. It was, in fact, the Kalmuck host, now in the last extremities of their exhaustion, and very fast approaching to that final stage of privation and intense misery beyond which few or none could have lived, but also, happily for themselves, fast approaching (in a literal sense) that final stage of their long pilgrimage at which they would meet hospitality on a scale of royal magnificence and full protection from their enemies. These enemies, however, as yet, still were hanging on their rear as fiercely as ever; though this day was destined to be the last of their hideous persecution. The khan had, in fact, sent forward couriers with all the requisite statements and petitions, addressed to the Emperor of China. These had been duly received, and preparations made in consequence to welcome the Kalmucks with the most paternal benevolence. But as these couriers had been despatched from the Torgau at the moment of arrival thither, and before the advance of Traubenberg had made it necessary for the khan to order a hasty renewal of the flight, the emperor had not looked for their arrival on their frontier until full three months after the present time. The khan had, indeed, expressly notified his intention to pass the summer heats on the banks of the Torgau, and to recommence his retreat about the beginning of September. The subsequent change of plan being unknown to Kien Long, left him for some time in doubt as to the true interpretation to be put upon this mighty apparition in the desert; but at length the savage clamors of hostile fury and the clangor of weapons unveiled to the emperor the true nature of those unexpected calamities which had so prematurely precipitated the Kalmuck measure. Apprehending the real state of affairs, the emperor instantly perceived that the first act of his fatherly care for these erring children (as he esteemed them), now returning to their ancient obedience, must be, to deliver them from their pursuers. And this was less difficult than might have been supposed. Not many miles in the rear was a body of well-appointed cavalry, with a strong detachment of artillery, who always attended the emperor's motions. These were hastily summoned. Meantime it occurred to the train of courtiers that some danger might arise to the emperor's person from the proximity of a lawless enemy; and accordingly he was induced to retire a little to the rear. It soon appeared, however, to those who watched the vapory shroud in the desert, that its motion was not such as would argue the direction of the march to be exactly upon the pavilion, but rather in a diagonal line, making an angle of full forty-five degrees with that line in which the imperial _cortége_ had been standing, and therefore with a distance continually increasing. Those who knew the country judged that the Kalmucks were making for a large fresh-water lake about seven or eight miles distant. They were right; and to that point the imperial cavalry was ordered up; and it was precisely in that spot, and about three hours after, and at noonday, on the 8th of September, that the great exodus of the Kalmuck Tartars was brought to a final close, and with a scene of such memorable and hellish fury as formed an appropriate winding up to an expedition in all its parts and details so awfully disastrous. The emperor was not personally present, or at least he saw whatever he _did_ see from too great a distance to discriminate its individual features; but he records in his written memorial the report made to him of this scene by some of his own officers. The Lake of Tengis, near the frightful Desert of Kobi, lay in a hollow amongst hills of a moderate height, ranging generally from two to three thousand feet high. About eleven o'clock in the forenoon the Chinese cavalry reached the summit of a road which led through a cradle-like dip in the mountains right down upon the margin of the lake. From this pass, elevated about two thousand feet above the level of the water, they continued to descend, by a very winding and difficult road, for an hour and a half; and during the whole of this descent they were compelled to be inactive spectators of the fiendish spectacle below. The Kalmucks, reduced by this time from about six hundred thousand souls to two hundred thousand, and after enduring for two months and a half the miseries we have previously described,--outrageous heat, famine, and the destroying cimeter of the Kirghises and the Bashkirs,--had for the last ten days been traversing a hideous desert, where no vestiges were seen of vegetation and no drop of water could be found. Camels and men were already so overladen that it was a mere impossibility that they should carry a tolerable sufficiency for the passage of this frightful wilderness. On the eighth day, the wretched daily allowance, which had been continually diminishing, failed entirely; and thus, for two days of insupportable fatigue, the horrors of thirst had been carried to the fiercest extremity. Upon this last morning, at the sight of the hills and the forest scenery, which announced to those who acted as guides the neighborhood of the Lake of Tengis, all the people rushed along with maddening eagerness to the anticipated solace. The day grew hotter and hotter, the people more and more exhausted; and gradually, in the general rush forwards to the lake, all discipline and command were lost,--all attempts to preserve a rearguard were neglected. The wild Bashkirs rode in amongst the encumbered people and slaughtered them by wholesale, and almost without resistance. Screams and tumultuous shouts proclaimed the progress of the massacre; but none heeded,--none halted; all alike, pauper or noble, continued to rush on with maniacal haste to the waters,--all with faces blackened by the heat preying upon the liver, and with tongue drooping from the mouth. The cruel Bashkir was affected by the same misery, and manifested the same symptoms of his misery, as the wretched Kalmuck. The murderer was oftentimes in the same frantic misery as his murdered victim. Many, indeed (an ordinary effect of thirst), in both nations, had become lunatic; and in this state, whilst mere multitude and condensation of bodies alone opposed any check to the destroying cimeter and the trampling hoof, the lake was reached; and to that the whole vast body of enemies rushed, and together continued to rush, forgetful of all things at that moment but of one almighty instinct. This absorption of the thoughts in one maddening appetite lasted for a single minute; but in the next arose the final scene of parting vengeance. Far and wide the waters of the solitary lake were instantly dyed red with blood and gore. Here rode a party of savage Bashkirs, hewing off heads as fast as the swaths fall before the mower's scythe; there stood unarmed Kalmucks in a death-grapple with their detested foes, both up to the middle in water, and oftentimes both sinking together below the surface, from weakness or from struggles, and perishing in each other's arms. Did the Bashkirs at any point collect into a cluster for the sake of giving impetus to the assault, thither were the camels driven in fiercely by those who rode them, generally women or boys; and even these quiet creatures were forced into a share in this carnival of murder by trampling down as many as they could strike prostrate with the lash of their forelegs. Every moment the water grew more polluted; and yet every moment fresh myriads came up to the lake and rushed in, not able to resist their frantic thirst, and swallowing large draughts of water visibly contaminated with the blood of their slaughtered compatriots. Wheresoever the lake was shallow enough to allow of men raising their heads above the water, there, for scores of acres, were to be seen all forms of ghastly fear, of agonizing struggle, of spasm, of convulsion, of mortal conflict,--death, and the fear of death,--revenge, and the lunacy of revenge,--hatred, and the frenzy of hatred; until the neutral spectators, of whom there were not a few, now descending the eastern side of the lake, at length averted their eyes in horror. This horror, which seemed incapable of further addition, was, however, increased by an unexpected incident. The Bashkirs, beginning to perceive here and there the approach of the Chinese cavalry, felt it prudent--wheresoever they were sufficiently at leisure from the passions of the murderous scene--to gather into bodies. This was noticed by the governor of a small Chinese fort built upon an eminence above the lake; and immediately he threw in a broadside, which spread havoc amongst the Bashkir tribe. As often as the Bashkirs collected into "_globes_" and "_turms_" as their only means of meeting the long line of descending Chinese cavalry, so often did the Chinese governor of the fort pour in his exterminating broadside; until at length the lake, at the lower end, became one vast seething caldron of human bloodshed and carnage. The Chinese cavalry had reached the foot of the hills; the Bashkirs, attentive to _their_ movements, had formed; skirmishes had been fought; and, with a quick sense that the contest was henceforwards rapidly becoming hopeless, the Bashkirs and Kirghises began to retire. The pursuit was not as vigorous as the Kalmuck hatred would have desired; but, at the same time, the very gloomiest hatred could not but find, in their own dreadful experience of the Asiatic deserts, and in the certainty that these wretched Bashkirs had to repeat that same experience, a second time, for thousands of miles, as the price exacted by a retributary Providence for their vindictive cruelty, not the very gloomiest of the Kalmucks or the least reflecting but found in all this a retaliatory chastisement more complete and absolute than any which their swords and lances could have obtained or human vengeance could have devised. * * * * * Here ends the tale of the Kalmuck wanderings in the desert; for any subsequent marches which awaited them were neither long nor painful. Every possible alleviation and refreshment for their exhausted bodies had been already provided by Kien Long with the most princely munificence; and lands of great fertility were immediately assigned to them in ample extent along the river Ily, not very far from the point at which they had first emerged from the wilderness of Kobi. But the beneficent attention of the Chinese emperor may be best stated in his own words, as translated into French by one of the Jesuit missionaries: "La nation des Torgotes (_savoir les Kalmuques_) arriva à Ily, toute _delabrée_, n'ayant ni de quoi vivre, ni de quoi se vêtir. Je l'avais prévu; et j'avais ordonné de faire en tout genre les provisions nécessaires pour pouvoir les secourir promptement; c'est ce qui a été exécuté. On a fait la division des terres; et on a assigné à chaque famille une portion suffisante pour pouvoir servir à son entretien, soit en la cultivant, soit en y nourissant des bestiaux. On a donné à chaque particulier des étoffes pour l'habiller, des grains pour se nourrir pendant l'espace d'une année, des ustensiles pour le ménage et d'autres choses nécessaires: et outre cela plusieurs onces d'argent, pour se pourvoir de ce qu'on aurait pu oublier. On a designé des lieux particuliers, fertiles en pâturages; et on leur a donné des boeufs, moutons, etc., pour qu'ils pussent dans la suite travailler par eux-mêmes à leur entretien et à leur bienêtre." These are the words of the emperor himself, speaking in his own person of his own paternal cares; but another Chinese, treating the same subject, records the munificence of this prince in terms which proclaim still more forcibly the disinterested generosity which prompted, and the delicate considerateness which conducted, this extensive bounty. He has been speaking of the Kalmucks, and he goes on thus: "Lorsqu'ils arrivèrent sur nos frontières (au nombre de plusieurs centaines de mille), quoique la fatigue extrême, la faim, la soif, et toutes les autres incommodités inséparables d'une très-longue et très pénible route en eussent fait périr presque autant, ils étaient réduits à la dernière misère; ils manquaient de tout. Il" (viz., l'empereur, Kien Long) "leur fit préparer des logemens conformes à leur manière de vivre; il leur fit distribuer des aliments et des habits; il leur fit donner des boeufs, des moutons, et des ustensiles, pour les mettre en état de former des troupeaux et de cultiver la terre, _et tout cela à ses propres frais_, qui se sont montés à des sommes immenses, sans compter l'argent qu'il a donné à chaque chef-de-famille, pour pourvoir à la subsistance de sa femme et de ses enfans." Thus, after their memorable year of misery, the Kalmucks were replaced in territorial possessions, and in comfort equal, perhaps, or even superior, to that which they had enjoyed in Russia, and with superior political advantages. But, if equal or superior, their condition was no longer the same; if not in degree, their social prosperity had altered in quality; for, instead of being a purely pastoral and vagrant people, they were now in circumstances which obliged them to become essentially dependent upon agriculture, and thus far raised in social rank, that, by the natural course of their habits and the necessities of life, they were effectually reclaimed from roving and from the savage customs connected with so unsettled a life. They gained also in political privileges, chiefly through the immunity from military service which their new relations enabled them to obtain. These were circumstances of advantage and gain. But one great disadvantage there was, amply to overbalance all other possible gain,--the chances were lost, or were removed to an incalculable distance, for their conversion to Christianity, without which in these times there is no absolute advance possible on the path of true civilization. One word remains to be said upon the _personal_ interests concerned in this great drama. The catastrophe in this respect was remarkable and complete. Oubacha, with all his goodness and incapacity of suspecting, had, since the mysterious affair on the banks of the Torgau, felt his mind alienated from his cousin. He revolted from the man that would have murdered him; and he had displayed his caution so visibly as to provoke a reaction in the bearing of Zebek-Dorchi and a displeasure which all his dissimulation could not hide. This had produced a feud, which, by keeping them aloof, had probably saved the life of Oubacha; for the friendship of Zebek-Dorchi was more fatal than his open enmity. After the settlement on the Ily this feud continued to advance, until it came under the notice of the emperor on occasion of a visit which all the Tartar chieftains made to his majesty at his hunting-lodge in 1772. The emperor informed himself accurately of all the particulars connected with the transaction, of all the rights and claims put forward, and of the way in which they would severally affect the interests of the Kalmuck people. The consequence was, that he adopted the cause of Oubacha, and repressed the pretensions of Zebek-Dorchi, who, on his part, so deeply resented this discountenance to his ambitious projects, that, in conjunction with other chiefs, he had the presumption even to weave nets of treason against the emperor himself. Plots were laid, were detected, were baffled; counterplots were constructed upon the same basis, and with the benefit of the opportunities thus offered. Finally Zebek-Dorchi was invited to the imperial lodge, together with all his accomplices; and, under the skilful management of the Chinese nobles in the emperor's establishment, the murderous artifices of these Tartar chieftains were made to recoil upon themselves; and the whole of them perished by assassination at a great imperial banquet; for the Chinese morality is exactly of that kind which approves in everything the _lex talionis_:-- "....lex nec justior ulla est (as _they_ think) Quam necis artifices arte perire sua." So perished Zebek-Dorchi, the author and originator of the great Tartar _exodus_. Oubacha, meantime, and his people were gradually recovering from the effects of their misery and repairing their losses. Peace and prosperity, under the gentle rule of a fatherly lord paramount, redawned upon the tribes; their household _lares_, after so harsh a translation to distant climates, found again a happy reinstatement in what had, in fact, been their primitive abodes; they found themselves settled in quiet sylvan scenes, rich in all the luxuries of life, and endowed with the perfect loveliness of Arcadian beauty. But from the hills of this favored land, and even from the level grounds, as they approach its western border, they still look out upon that fearful wilderness which once beheld a nation in agony,--the utter extirpation of nearly half a million from amongst its numbers, and for the remainder a storm of misery so fierce that in the end (as happened also at Athens during the Peloponnesian war from a different form of misery) very many lost their memory; all records of their past life were wiped out as with a sponge,--utterly erased and cancelled; and many others lost their reason, some in a gentle form of pensive melancholy, some in a more restless form of feverish delirium and nervous agitation, and others in the fixed forms of tempestuous mania, raving frenzy, or moping idiocy. Two great commemorative monuments arose in after years to mark the depth and permanence of the awe, the sacred and reverential grief, with which all persons looked back upon the dread calamities attached to the year of the tiger,--all who had either personally shared in those calamities and had themselves drunk from that cup of sorrow, or who had effectually been made witnesses to their results and associated with their relief. Two great monuments, we say; first of all, one in the religious solemnity, enjoined by the Dalai lama, called in the Tartar language a _Romanang_, that is, a national commemoration, with music the most rich and solemn, of all the souls who departed to the rest of paradise from the afflictions of the desert. This took place about six years after the arrival in China. Secondly, another, more durable, and more commensurate to the scale of the calamity and to the grandeur of this national exodus, in the mighty columns of granite and brass erected by the emperor, Kien Long, near the banks of the Ily. These columns stand upon the very margin of the _steppes_, and they bear a short but emphatic inscription to the following effect:-- By the will of God, Here, upon the brink of these deserts, Which from this point begin and stretch away, Pathless, treeless, waterless, For thousands of miles, and along the margins of many mighty nations, Rested from their labors and from great afflictions, Under the shadow of the Chinese Wall, And by the favor of KIEN LONG, God's Lieutenant upon Earth, The ancient Children of the Wilderness,--the Torgote Tartars,-- Flying before the wrath of the Grecian czar; Wandering sheep who had strayed away from the Celestial Empire in the year 1616, But are now mercifully gathered again, after infinite sorrow, Into the fold of their forgiving shepherd. Hallowed be the spot forever, and Hallowed be the day--September 8, 1771! Amen. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors and printer's errors were corrected. Inconsistent hyphenation and capitalization were retained. 18357 ---- A JACOBITE EXILE: Being the Adventures of a Young Englishman in the Service of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden by G. A. Henty. Contents Preface. Chapter 1: A Spy in the Household. Chapter 2: Denounced. Chapter 3: A Rescue. Chapter 4: In Sweden. Chapter 5: Narva. Chapter 6: A Prisoner. Chapter 7: Exchanged. Chapter 8: The Passage of the Dwina. Chapter 9: In Warsaw. Chapter 10: In Evil Plight. Chapter 11: With Brigands. Chapter 12: Treed By Wolves. Chapter 13: A Rescued Party. Chapter 14: The Battle Of Clissow. Chapter 15: An Old Acquaintance. Chapter 16: In England Again. Chapter 17: The North Coach. Chapter 18: A Confession. Preface. My Dear Lads, Had I attempted to write you an account of the whole of the adventurous career of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, it would, in itself, have filled a bulky volume, to the exclusion of all other matter; and a youth, who fought at Narva, would have been a middle-aged man at the death of that warlike monarch, before the walls of Frederickshall. I have, therefore, been obliged to confine myself to the first three years of his reign, in which he crushed the army of Russia at Narva, and laid the then powerful republic of Poland prostrate at his feet. In this way, only, could I obtain space for the private adventures and doings of Charlie Carstairs, the hero of the story. The details of the wars of Charles the Twelfth were taken from the military history, written at his command by his chamberlain, Adlerfeld; from a similar narrative by a Scotch gentleman in his service; and from Voltaire's history. The latter is responsible for the statement that the trade of Poland was almost entirely in the hands of Scotch, French, and Jewish merchants, the Poles themselves being sharply divided into the two categories of nobles and peasants. Yours sincerely, G. A. Henty. Chapter 1: A Spy in the Household. On the borders of Lancashire and Westmoreland, two centuries since, stood Lynnwood, a picturesque mansion, still retaining something of the character of a fortified house. It was ever a matter of regret to its owner, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, that his grandfather had so modified its construction, by levelling one side of the quadrangle, and inserting large mullion windows in that portion inhabited by the family, that it was in no condition to stand a siege, in the time of the Civil War. Sir Marmaduke was, at that time, only a child, but he still remembered how the Roundhead soldiers had lorded it there, when his father was away fighting with the army of the king; how they had seated themselves at the board, and had ordered his mother about as if she had been a scullion, jeering her with cruel words as to what would have been the fate of her husband, if they had caught him there, until, though but eight years old, he had smitten one of the troopers, as he sat, with all his force. What had happened after that, he did not recollect, for it was not until a week after the Roundheads had ridden away that he found himself in his bed, with his mother sitting beside him, and his head bandaged with cloths dipped in water. He always maintained that, had the house been fortified, it could have held out until help arrived, although, in later years, his father assured him that it was well it was not in a position to offer a defence. "We were away down south, Marmaduke, and the Roundheads were masters of this district, at the time. They would have battered the place around your mother's ears, and, likely as not, have burnt it to the ground. As it was, I came back here to find it whole and safe, except that the crop-eared scoundrels had, from pure wantonness, destroyed the pictures and hacked most of the furniture to pieces. I took no part in the later risings, seeing that they were hopeless, and therefore preserved my property, when many others were ruined. "No, Marmaduke, it is just as well that the house was not fortified. I believe in fighting, when there is some chance, even a slight one, of success, but I regard it as an act of folly, to throw away a life when no good can come of it." Still, Sir Marmaduke never ceased to regret that Lynnwood was not one of the houses that had been defended, to the last, against the enemies of the king. At the Restoration he went, for the first time in his life, to London, to pay his respects to Charles the Second. He was well received, and although he tired, in a very short time, of the gaieties of the court, he returned to Lynnwood with his feelings of loyalty to the Stuarts as strong as ever. He rejoiced heartily when the news came of the defeat of Monmouth at Sedgemoor, and was filled with rage and indignation when James weakly fled, and left his throne to be occupied by Dutch William. From that time, he became a strong Jacobite, and emptied his glass nightly "to the king over the water." In the north the Jacobites were numerous, and at their gatherings treason was freely talked, while arms were prepared, and hidden away for the time when the lawful king should return to claim his own. Sir Marmaduke was deeply concerned in the plot of 1696, when preparations had been made for a great Jacobite rising throughout the country. Nothing came of it, for the Duke of Berwick, who was to have led it, failed in getting the two parties who were concerned to come to an agreement. The Jacobites were ready to rise, directly a French army landed. The French king, on the other hand, would not send an army until the Jacobites had risen, and the matter therefore fell through, to Sir Marmaduke's indignation and grief. But he had no words strong enough to express his anger and disgust when he found that, side by side with the general scheme for a rising, a plot had been formed by Sir George Barclay, a Scottish refugee, to assassinate the king, on his return from hunting in Richmond Forest. "It is enough to drive one to become a Whig," he exclaimed. "I am ready to fight Dutch William, for he occupies the place of my rightful sovereign, but I have no private feud with him, and, if I had, I would run any man through who ventured to propose to me a plot to assassinate him. Such scoundrels as Barclay would bring disgrace on the best cause in the world. Had I heard as much as a whisper of it, I would have buckled on my sword, and ridden to London to warn the Dutchman of his danger. However, as it seems that Barclay had but some forty men with him, most of them foreign desperadoes, the Dutchman must see that English gentlemen, however ready to fight against him fairly, would have no hand in so dastardly a plot as this. "Look you, Charlie, keep always in mind that you bear the name of our martyred king, and be ready ever to draw your sword in the cause of the Stuarts, whether it be ten years hence, or forty, that their banner is hoisted again; but keep yourself free from all plots, except those that deal with fair and open warfare. Have no faith whatever in politicians, who are ever ready to use the country gentry as an instrument for gaining their own ends. Deal with your neighbours, but mistrust strangers, from whomsoever they may say they come." Which advice Charlie, at that time thirteen years old, gravely promised to follow. He had naturally inherited his father's sentiments, and believed the Jacobite cause to be a sacred one. He had fought and vanquished Alured Dormay, his second cousin, and two years his senior, for speaking of King James' son as the Pretender, and was ready, at any time, to do battle with any boy of his own age, in the same cause. Alured's father, John Dormay, had ridden over to Lynnwood, to complain of the violence of which his son had been the victim, but he obtained no redress from Sir Marmaduke. "The boy is a chip of the old block, cousin, and he did right. I myself struck a blow at the king's enemies, when I was but eight years old, and got my skull well-nigh cracked for my pains. It is well that the lads were not four years older, for then, instead of taking to fisticuffs, their swords would have been out, and as my boy has, for the last four years, been exercised daily in the use of his weapon, it might happen that, instead of Alured coming home with a black eye, and, as you say, a missing tooth, he might have been carried home with a sword thrust through his body. "It was, to my mind, entirely the fault of your son. I should have blamed Charlie, had he called the king at Westminster Dutch William, for, although each man has a right to his own opinions, he has no right to offend those of others--besides, at present it is as well to keep a quiet tongue as to a matter that words cannot set right. In the same way, your son had no right to offend others by calling James Stuart the Pretender. "Certainly, of the twelve boys who go over to learn what the Rector of Apsley can teach them, more than half are sons of gentlemen whose opinions are similar to my own. "It would be much better, John Dormay, if, instead of complaining of my boy, you were to look somewhat to your own. I marked, the last time he came over here, that he was growing loutish in his manners, and that he bore himself with less respect to his elders than is seemly in a lad of that age. He needs curbing, and would carry himself all the better if, like Charlie, he had an hour a day at sword exercise. I speak for the boy's good. It is true that you yourself, being a bitter Whig, mix but little with your neighbours, who are for the most part the other way of thinking; but this may not go on for ever, and you would, I suppose, like Alured, when he grows up, to mix with others of his rank in the county; and it would be well, therefore, that he should have the accomplishments and manners of young men of his own age." John Dormay did not reply hastily--it was his policy to keep on good terms with his wife's cousin, for the knight was a man of far higher consideration, in the county, than himself. His smile, however, was not a pleasant one, as he rose and said: "My mission has hardly terminated as I expected, Sir Marmaduke. I came to complain, and I go away advised somewhat sharply." "Tut, tut, man!" the knight said. "I speak only for the lad's good, and I am sure that you cannot but feel the truth of what I have said. What does Alured want to make enemies for? It may be that it was only my son who openly resented his ill-timed remarks, but you may be sure that others were equally displeased, and maybe their resentment will last much longer than that which was quenched in a fair stand-up fight. Certainly, there need be no malice between the boys. Alured's defeat may even do him good, for he cannot but feel that it is somewhat disgraceful to be beaten by one nearly a head shorter than he." "There is, no doubt, something in what you say, Sir Marmaduke," John Dormay said blandly, "and I will make it my business that, should the boys meet again as antagonists, Alured shall be able to give a better account of himself." "He is a disagreeable fellow," Sir Marmaduke said to himself, as he watched John Dormay ride slowly away through the park, "and, if it were not that he is husband to my cousin Celia, I would have nought to do with him. She is my only kinswoman, and, were aught to happen to Charlie, that lout, her son, would be the heir of Lynnwood. I should never rest quiet in my grave, were a Whig master here. "I would much rather that he had spoken wrathfully, when I straightly gave him my opinion of the boy, who is growing up an ill-conditioned cub. It would have been more honest. I hate to see a man smile, when I know that he would fain swear. I like my cousin Celia, and I like her little daughter Ciceley, who takes after her, and not after John Dormay; but I would that the fellow lived on the other side of England. He is out of his place here, and, though men do not speak against him in my presence, knowing that he is a sort of kinsman, I have never heard one say a good word for him. "It is not only because he is a Whig. There are other Whig gentry in the neighbourhood, against whom I bear no ill will, and can meet at a social board in friendship. It would be hard if politics were to stand between neighbours. It is Dormay's manner that is against him. If he were anyone but Celia's husband, I would say that he is a smooth-faced knave, though I altogether lack proof of my words, beyond that he has added half a dozen farms to his estate, and, in each case, there were complaints that, although there was nothing contrary to the law, it was by sharp practice that he obtained possession, lending money freely in order to build houses and fences and drains, and then, directly a pinch came, demanding the return of his advance. "Such ways may pass in a London usurer, but they don't do for us country folk; and each farm that he has taken has closed the doors of a dozen good houses to John Dormay. I fear that Celia has a bad time with him, though she is not one to complain. I let Charlie go over to Rockley, much oftener than I otherwise should do, for her sake and Ciceley's, though I would rather, a hundred times, that they should come here. Not that the visits are pleasant, when they do come, for I can see that Celia is always in fear, lest I should ask her questions about her life at home; which is the last thing that I should think of doing, for no good ever comes of interference between man and wife, and, whatever I learned, I could not quarrel with John Dormay without being altogether separated from Celia and the girl. "I am heartily glad that Charlie has given Alured a sound thrashing. The boy is too modest. He only said a few words, last evening, about the affair, and I thought that only a blow or two had been exchanged. It was as much as I could do, not to rub my hands and chuckle, when his father told me all about it. However, I must speak gravely to Charlie. If he takes it up, every time a Whig speaks scornfully of the king, he will be always in hot water, and, were he a few years older, would become a marked man. We have got to bide our time, and, except among friends, it is best to keep a quiet tongue until that time comes." To Sir Marmaduke's disappointment, three more years went on without the position changing in any way. Messengers went and came between France and the English Jacobites, but no movement was made. The failure of the assassination plot had strengthened William's hold on the country, for Englishmen love fair play and hate assassination, so that many who had, hitherto, been opponents of William of Orange, now ranged themselves on his side, declaring they could no longer support a cause that used assassination as one of its weapons. More zealous Jacobites, although they regretted the assassination plot, and were as vehement of their denunciations of its authors as were the Whigs, remained staunch in their fidelity to "the king over the water," maintaining stoutly that his majesty knew nothing whatever of this foul plot, and that his cause was in no way affected by the misconduct of a few men, who happened to be among its adherents. At Lynnwood things went on as usual. Charlie continued his studies, in a somewhat desultory way, having but small affection for books; kept up his fencing lesson diligently and learned to dance; quarrelled occasionally with his cousin Alured, spent a good deal of his time on horseback, and rode over, not unfrequently, to Rockley, choosing, as far as possible, the days and hours when he knew that Alured and his father were likely to be away. He went over partly for his own pleasure, but more in compliance with his father's wishes. "My cousin seldom comes over, herself," the latter said. "I know, right well, that it is from no slackness of her own, but that her husband likes not her intimacy here. It is well, then, that you should go over and see them, for it is only when you bring her that I see Ciceley. I would she were your sister, lad, for she is a bright little maid, and would make the old house lively." Therefore, once a week or so, Charlie rode over early to Rockley, which was some five miles distant, and brought back Ciceley, cantering on her pony by his side, escorting her home again before nightfall. Ciceley's mother wondered, sometimes, that her husband, who in most matters set his will in opposition to hers, never offered any objection to the girl's visits to Lynnwood. She thought that, perhaps, he was pleased that there should be an intimacy between some member, at least, of his family, and Sir Marmaduke's. There were so few houses at which he or his were welcome, it was pleasant to him to be able to refer to the close friendship of his daughter with their cousins at Lynnwood. Beyond this, Celia, who often, as she sat alone, turned the matter over in her mind, could see no reason he could have for permitting the intimacy. That he would permit it without some reason was, as her experience had taught her, out of the question. Ciceley never troubled her head about the matter. Her visits to Lynnwood were very pleasant to her. She was two years younger than Charlie Carstairs; and although, when he had once brought her to the house, he considered that his duties were over until the hour arrived for her return, he was sometimes ready to play with her, escort her round the garden, or climb the trees for fruit or birds' eggs for her. Such little courtesies she never received from Alured, who was four years her senior, and who never interested himself in the slightest degree in her. He was now past eighteen, and was beginning to regard himself as a man, and had, to Ciceley's satisfaction, gone a few weeks before, to London, to stay with an uncle who had a place at court, and was said to be much in the confidence of some of the Whig lords. Sir Marmaduke was, about this time, more convinced than ever that, ere long, the heir of the Stuarts would come over from France, with men, arms, and money, and would rally round him the Jacobites of England and Scotland. Charlie saw but little of him, for he was frequently absent, from early morning until late at night, riding to visit friends in Westmoreland and Yorkshire, sometimes being away two or three days at a time. Of an evening, there were meetings at Lynnwood, and at these strangers, who arrived after nightfall, were often present. Charlie was not admitted to any of these gatherings. "You will know all about it in time, lad," his father said. "You are too young to bother your head with politics, and you would lose patience in a very short time. I do myself, occasionally. Many who are the foremost in talk, when there is no prospect of doing anything, draw back when the time approaches for action, and it is sickening to listen to the timorous objections and paltry arguments that are brought forward. Here am I, a man of sixty, ready to risk life and fortune in the good cause, and there are many, not half my age, who speak with as much caution as if they were graybeards. Still, lad, I have no doubt that the matter will straighten itself out, and come right in the end. It is always the most trying time, for timorous hearts, before the first shot of a battle is fired. Once the engagement commences, there is no time for fear. The battle has to be fought out, and the best way to safety is to win a victory. I have not the least doubt that, as soon as it is known that the king has landed, there will be no more shilly-shallying or hesitation. Every loyal man will mount his horse, and call out his tenants, and, in a few days, England will be in a blaze from end to end." Charlie troubled himself but little with what was going on. His father had promised him that, when the time did come, he should ride by his side, and with that promise he was content to wait, knowing that, at present, his strength would be of but little avail, and that every week added somewhat to his weight and sinew. One day he was in the garden with Ciceley. The weather was hot, and the girl was sitting, in a swing, under a shady tree, occasionally starting herself by a push with her foot on the ground, and then swaying gently backward and forward, until the swing was again at rest. Charlie was seated on the ground, near her, pulling the ears of his favourite dog, and occasionally talking to her, when a servant came out, with a message that his father wanted to speak to him. "I expect I shall be back in a few minutes, Ciceley, so don't you wander away till I come. It is too hot today to be hunting for you, all over the garden, as I did when you hid yourself last week." It was indeed but a short time until he returned. "My father only wanted to tell me that he is just starting for Bristowe's, and, as it is over twenty miles away, he may not return until tomorrow." "I don't like that man's face who brought the message to you, Charlie." "Don't you?" the boy said carelessly. "I have not noticed him much. He has not been many months with us. "What are you thinking of?" he asked, a minute later, seeing that his cousin looked troubled. "I don't know that I ought to tell you, Charlie. You know my father does not think the same way as yours about things." "I should rather think he doesn't," Charlie laughed. "There is no secret about that, Ciceley; but they don't quarrel over it. Last time your father and mother came over here, I dined with them for the first time, and I noticed there was not a single word said about politics. They chatted over the crops, and the chances of a war in Europe, and of the quarrel between Holstein and Denmark, and whether the young king of Sweden would aid the duke, who seems to be threatened by Saxony as well as by Denmark. I did not know anything about it, and thought it was rather stupid; but my father and yours both seemed of one mind, and were as good friends as if they were in equal agreement on all other points. But what has that to do with Nicholson, for that is the man's name who came out just now?" "It does not seem to have much to do with it," she said doubtfully, "and yet, perhaps it does. You know my mother is not quite of the same opinion as my father, although she never says so to him; but, when we are alone together, sometimes she shakes her head and says she fears that trouble is coming, and it makes her very unhappy. One day I was in the garden, and they were talking loudly in the dining room--at least, he was talking loudly. Well, he said--But I don't know whether I ought to tell you, Charlie." "Certainly you ought not, Ciceley. If you heard what you were not meant to hear, you ought never to say a word about it to anyone." "But it concerns you and Sir Marmaduke." "I cannot help that," he said stoutly. "People often say things of each other, in private, especially if they are out of temper, that they don't quite mean, and it would make terrible mischief if such things were repeated. Whatever your father said, I do not want to hear it, and it would be very wrong of you to repeat it." "I am not going to repeat it, Charlie. I only want to say that I do not think my father and yours are very friendly together, which is natural, when my father is all for King William, and your father for King James. He makes no secret of that, you know." Charlie nodded. "That is right enough, Ciceley, but still, I don't understand in the least what it has to do with the servant." "It has to do with it," she said pettishly, starting the swing afresh, and then relapsing into silence until it again came to a standstill. "I think you ought to know," she said suddenly. "You see, Charlie, Sir Marmaduke is very kind to me, and I love him dearly, and so I do you, and I think you ought to know, although it may be nothing at all." "Well, fire away then, Ciceley. There is one thing you may be quite sure of, whatever you tell me, it is like telling a brother, and I shall never repeat it to anyone." "Well, it is this. That man comes over sometimes to see my father. I have seen him pass my window, three or four times, and go in by the garden door into father's study. I did not know who he was, but it did seem funny his entering by that door, as if he did not want to be seen by anyone in the house. I did not think anything more about it, till I saw him just now, then I knew him directly. If I had seen him before, I should have told you at once, but I don't think I have." "I daresay not, Ciceley. He does not wait at table, but is under the steward, and helps clean the silver. He waits when we have several friends to dinner. At other times he does not often come into the room. "What you tell me is certainly curious. What can he have to say to your father?" "I don't know, Charlie. I don't know anything about it. I do think you ought to know." "Yes, I think it is a good thing that I should know," Charlie agreed thoughtfully. "I daresay it is all right, but, at any rate, I am glad you told me." "You won't tell your father?" she asked eagerly. "Because, if you were to speak of it--" "I shall not tell him. You need not be afraid that what you have told me will come out. It is curious, and that is all, and I will look after the fellow a bit. Don't think anything more about it. It is just the sort of thing it is well to know, but I expect there is no harm in it, one way or the other. Of course, he must have known your father before he came to us, and may have business of some sort with him. He may have a brother, or some other relation, who wants to take one of your father's farms. Indeed, there are a hundred things he might want to see him about. But still, I am glad you have told me." In his own mind, Charlie thought much more seriously of it than he pretended. He knew that, at present, his father was engaged heart and soul in a projected Jacobite rising. He knew that John Dormay was a bitter Whig. He believed that he had a grudge against his father, and the general opinion of him was that he was wholly unscrupulous. That he should, then, be in secret communication with a servant at Lynnwood, struck him as a very serious matter, indeed. Charlie was not yet sixteen, but his close companionship with his father had rendered him older than most lads of his age. He was as warm a Jacobite as his father, but the manner in which William, with his Dutch troops, had crushed the great Jacobite rebellion in Ireland, seemed to him a lesson that the prospects of success, in England, were much less certain than his father believed them to be. John Dormay, as an adherent of William, would be interested in thwarting the proposed movement, with the satisfaction of, at the same time, bringing Sir Marmaduke into disgrace. Charlie could hardly believe that his cousin would be guilty of setting a spy to watch his father, but it was certainly possible, and as he thought the matter over, as he rode back after escorting Ciceley to her home, he resolved to keep a sharp watch over the doings of this man Nicholson. "It would never do to tell my father what Ciceley said. He would bundle the fellow out, neck and crop, and perhaps break some of his bones, and then it would be traced to her. She has not a happy home, as it is, and it would be far worse if her father knew that it was she who had put us on our guard. I must find out something myself, and then we can turn him out, without there being the least suspicion that Ciceley is mixed up in it." The next evening several Jacobite gentlemen rode in, and, as usual, had a long talk with Sir Marmaduke after supper. "If this fellow is a spy," Charlie said to himself, "he will be wanting to hear what is said, and to do so he must either hide himself in the room, or listen at the door, or at one of the windows. It is not likely that he will get into the room, for to do that he must have hidden himself before supper began. I don't think he would dare to listen at the door, for anyone passing through the hall would catch him at it. It must be at one of the windows." The room was at an angle of the house. Three windows looked out on to the lawn in front; that at the side into a large shrubbery, where the bushes grew up close to it; and Charlie decided that here, if anywhere, the man would take up his post. As soon, then, as he knew that the servants were clearing away the supper, he took a heavy cudgel and went out. He walked straight away from the house, and then, when he knew that his figure could no longer be seen in the twilight, he made a circuit, and, entering the shrubbery, crept along close to the wall of the Muse, until within two or three yards of the window. Having made sure that at present, at any rate, no one was near, he moved out a step or two to look at the window. His suspicions were at once confirmed. The inside curtains were drawn, but the casement was open two or three inches. Charlie again took up his post, behind a bush, and waited. In five minutes he heard a twig snap, and then a figure came along, noiselessly, and placed itself at the window. Charlie gave him but a moment to listen, then he sprang forward, and, with his whole strength, brought his cudgel down upon the man's head. He fell like a stone. Charlie threw open the window, and, as he did so, the curtain was torn back by his father, the sound of the blow and the fall having reached the ears of those within. Sir Marmaduke had drawn his sword, and was about to leap through the window, when Charlie exclaimed: "It is I, father. I have caught a fellow listening at the window, and have just knocked him down." "Well done, my boy! "Bring lights, please, gentlemen. Let us see what villain we have got here." But, as he spoke, Charlie's head suddenly disappeared, and a sharp exclamation broke from him, as he felt his ankles grasped and his feet pulled from under him. He came down with such a crash that, for a moment, he was unable to rise. He heard a rustling in the bushes, and then his father leapt down beside him. "Where are you, my boy? Has the scoundrel hurt you?" "He has given me a shake," Charlie said as he sat up; "and, what is worse, I am afraid he has got away." "Follow me, gentlemen, and scatter through the gardens," Sir Marmaduke roared. "The villain has escaped!" For a few minutes, there was a hot pursuit through the shrubbery and gardens, but nothing was discovered. Charlie had been so shaken that he was unable to join the pursuit, but, having got on to his feet, remained leaning against the wall until his father came back. "He has got away, Charlie. Have you any idea who he was?" "It was Nicholson, father. At least, I am almost certain that it was him. It was too dark to see his face. I could see the outline of his head against the window, and he had on a cap with a cock's feather which I had noticed the man wore." "But how came you here, Charlie?" "I will tell you that afterwards, father. Don't ask me now." For, at this moment, some of the others were coming up. Several of them had torches, and, as they approached, Sir Marmaduke saw something lying on the ground under the window. He picked it up. "Here is the fellow's cap," he said. "You must have hit him a shrewd blow, Charlie, for here is a clean cut through the cloth, and a patch of fresh blood on the white lining. How did he get you down, lad?" "He fell so suddenly, when I hit him, that I thought I had either killed or stunned him; but of course I had not, for it was but a moment after, when I was speaking to you, that I felt my ankles seized, and I went down with a crash. I heard him make off through the bushes; but I was, for the moment, almost dazed, and could do nothing to stop him." "Was the window open when he came?" "Yes, sir, two or three inches." "Then it was evidently a planned thing. "Well, gentlemen, we may as well go indoors. The fellow is well out of our reach now, and we may be pretty sure he will never again show his face here. Fortunately he heard nothing, for the serving men had but just left the room, and we had not yet begun to talk." "That is true enough, Sir Marmaduke," one of the others said. "The question is: how long has this been going on?" Sir Marmaduke looked at Charlie. "I know nothing about it, sir. Till now, I have not had the slightest suspicion of this man. It occurred to me, this afternoon, that it might be possible for anyone to hear what was said inside the room, by listening at the windows; and that this shrubbery would form a very good shelter for an eavesdropper. So I thought, this evening I would take up my place here, to assure myself that there was no traitor in the household. I had been here but five minutes when the fellow stole quietly up, and placed his ear at the opening of the casement, and you may be sure that I gave him no time to listen to what was being said." "Well, we had better go in," Sir Marmaduke said. "There is no fear of our being overheard this evening. "Charlie, do you take old Banks aside, and tell him what has happened, and then go with him to the room where that fellow slept, and make a thorough search of any clothes he may have left behind, and of the room itself. Should you find any papers or documents, you will, of course, bring them down to me." But the closest search, by Charlie and the old butler, produced no results. Not a scrap of paper of any kind was found, and Banks said that he knew the man could neither read nor write. The party below soon broke up, considerable uneasiness being felt, by all, at the incident of the evening. When the last of them had left, Charlie was sent for. "Now, then, Charlie, let me hear how all this came about. I know that all you said about what took place at the window is perfectly true; but, even had you not said so, I should have felt there was something else. What was it brought you to that window? Your story was straight-forward enough, but it was certainly singular your happening to be there, and I fancy some of our friends thought that you had gone round to listen, yourself. One hinted as much; but I said that was absurd, for you were completely in my confidence, and that, whatever peril and danger there might be in the enterprise, you would share them with me." "It is not pleasant that they should have thought so, father, but that is better than that the truth should be known. This is how it happened;" and he repeated what Ciceley had told him in the garden. "So the worthy Master John Dormay has set a spy upon me," Sir Marmaduke said, bitterly. "I knew the man was a knave--that is public property--but I did not think that he was capable of this. Well, I am glad that, at any rate, no suspicion can fall upon Ciceley in the matter; but it is serious, lad, very serious. We do not know how long this fellow has been prying and listening, or how much he may have learnt. I don't think it can be much. We talked it over, and my friends all agreed with me that they do not remember those curtains having been drawn before. To begin with, the evenings are shortening fast, and, at our meeting last week, we finished our supper by daylight; and, had the curtains been drawn, it would have been noticed, for we had need of light before we finished. Two of the gentlemen, who were sitting facing the window, declared that they remembered distinctly that it was open. Mr. Jervoise says that he thought to himself that, if it was his place, he would have the trees cut away there, for they shut out the light. "Therefore, although it is uncomfortable to think that there has been a spy in the house, for some months, we have every reason to hope that our councils have not been overheard. Were it otherwise, I should lose no time in making for the coast, and taking ship to France, to wait quietly there until the king comes over." "You have no documents, father, that the man could have found?" "None, Charlie. We have doubtless made lists of those who could be relied upon, and of the number of men they could bring with them, but these have always been burned before we separated. Such letters as I have had from France, I have always destroyed as soon as I have read them. Perilous stuff of that sort should never be left about. No; they may ransack the place from top to bottom, and nothing will be found that could not be read aloud, without harm, in the marketplace of Lancaster. "So now, to bed, Charlie. It is long past your usual hour." Chapter 2: Denounced. "Charlie," Sir Marmaduke said on the following morning, at breakfast, "it is quite possible that that villain who acted as spy, and that other villain who employed him--I need not mention names--may swear an information against me, and I may be arrested, on the charge of being concerned in a plot. I am not much afraid of it, if they do. The most they could say is that I was prepared to take up arms, if his majesty crossed from France; but, as there are thousands and thousands of men ready to do the same, they may fine me, perhaps, but I should say that is all. However, what I want to say to you is, keep out of the way, if they come. I shall make light of the affair, while you, being pretty hot tempered, might say things that would irritate them, while they could be of no assistance to me. Therefore, I would rather that you were kept out of it, altogether. I shall want you here. In my absence, there must be somebody to look after things. "Mind that rascal John Dormay does not put his foot inside the house, while I am away. That fellow is playing some deep game, though I don't quite know what it is. I suppose he wants to win the goodwill of the authorities, by showing his activity and zeal; and, of course, he will imagine that no one has any idea that he has been in communication with this spy. We have got a hold over him, and, when I come back, I will have it out with him. He is not popular now, and, if it were known that he had been working against me, his wife's kinsman, behind my back, my friends about here would make the country too hot to hold him." "Yes, father; but please do not let him guess that we have learnt it from Ciceley. You see, that is the only way we know about it." "Yes, you are right there. I will be careful that he shall not know the little maid has anything to do with it. But we will think of that, afterwards; maybe nothing will come of it, after all. But, if anything does, mind, my orders are that you keep away from the house, while they are in it. When you come back, Banks will tell you what has happened. "You had better take your horse, and go for a ride now. Not over there, Charlie. I know, if you happened to meet that fellow, he would read in your face that you knew the part he had been playing, and, should nothing come of the business, I don't want him to know that, at present. The fellow can henceforth do us no harm, for we shall be on our guard against eavesdroppers; and, for the sake of cousin Celia and the child, I do not want an open breach. I do not see the man often, myself, and I will take good care I don't put myself in the way of meeting him, for the present, at any rate. Don't ride over there today." "Very well, father. I will ride over and see Harry Jervoise. I promised him that I would come over one day this week." It was a ten-mile ride, and, as he entered the courtyard of Mr. Jervoise's fine old mansion, he leapt off his horse, and threw the reins over a post. A servant came out. "The master wishes to speak to you, Master Carstairs." "No ill news, I hope, Charlie?" Mr. Jervoise asked anxiously, as the lad was shown into the room, where his host was standing beside the carved chimney piece. "No, sir, there is nothing new. My father thought that I had better be away today, in case any trouble should arise out of what took place yesterday, so I rode over to see Harry. I promised to do so, one day this week." "That is right. Does Sir Marmaduke think, then, that he will be arrested?" "I don't know that he expects it, sir, but he says that it is possible." "I do not see that they have anything to go upon, Charlie. As we agreed last night, that spy never had any opportunity of overhearing us before, and, certainly, he can have heard nothing yesterday. The fellow can only say what many people know, or could know, if they liked; that half a dozen of Sir Marmaduke's friends rode over to take supper with him. They can make nothing out of that." "No, sir; and my father said that, at the worst, it could be but the matter of a fine." "Quite so, lad; but I don't even see how it could amount to that. You will find Harry somewhere about the house. He has said nothing to me about going out." Harry Jervoise was just the same age as Charlie, and was his greatest friend. They were both enthusiastic in the cause of the Stuarts, equally vehement in their expressions of contempt for the Dutch king, equally anxious for the coming of him whom they regarded as their lawful monarch. They spent the morning together, as usual; went first to the stables and patted and talked to their horses; then they played at bowls on the lawn; after which, they had a bout of sword play; and, having thus let off some of their animal spirits, sat down and talked of the glorious times to come, when the king was to have his own again. Late in the afternoon, Charlie mounted his horse and rode for home. When within half a mile of the house, a man stepped out into the road in front of him. "Hullo, Banks, what is it? No bad news, I hope?" And he leapt from his horse, alarmed at the pallor of the old butler's face. "Yes, Master Charles, I have some very bad news, and have been waiting for the last two hours here, so as to stop you going to the house." "Why shouldn't I go to the house?" "Because there are a dozen soldiers, and three or four constables there." "And my father?" "They have taken him away." "This is bad news, Banks; but I know that he thought that it might be so. But it will not be very serious; it is only a question of a fine," he said. The butler shook his head, sadly. "It is worse than that, Master Charles. It is worse than you think." "Well, tell me all about it, Banks," Charlie said, feeling much alarmed at the old man's manner. "Well, sir, at three this afternoon, two magistrates, John Cockshaw and William Peters--" ("Both bitter Whigs," Charlie put in.) "--Rode up to the door. They had with them six constables, and twenty troopers." "There were enough of them, then," Charlie said. "Did they think my father was going to arm you all, and defend the place?" "I don't know, sir, but that is the number that came. The magistrates, and the constables, and four of the soldiers came into the house. Sir Marmaduke met them in the hall. "'To what do I owe the honour of this visit?' he said, quite cold and haughty. "'We have come, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, to arrest you, on the charge of being concerned in a treasonable plot against the king's life.' "Sir Marmaduke laughed out loud. "'I have no design on the life of William of Orange, or of any other man,' he said. 'I do not pretend to love him; in that matter there are thousands in this realm with me; but, as for a design against his life, I should say, gentlemen, there are few who know me, even among men like yourselves, whose politics are opposed to mine, who would for a moment credit such a foul insinuation.' "'We have nothing to do with that matter, Sir Marmaduke,' John Cockshaw said. 'We are acting upon a sworn information to that effect.' "Sir Marmaduke was angry, now. "'I can guess the name of the dog who signed it,' he said, 'and, kinsman though he is by marriage, I will force the lie down his throat.' "Then he cooled down again. "'Well, gentlemen, you have to do your duty. What do you desire next?' "'Our duty is, next, to search the house, for any treasonable documents that may be concealed here.' "'Search away, gentlemen,' Sir Marmaduke said, seating himself in one of the settles. 'The house is open to you. My butler, James Banks, will go round with you, and will open for you any cupboard or chest that may be locked.' "The magistrates nodded to the four soldiers. Two of them took their post near the chair, one at the outside door, and one at the other end of the room. Sir Marmaduke said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders, and then began to play with the ears of the little spaniel, Fido, that had jumped up on his knees. "'We will first go into the study,' John Cockshaw said; and I led them there. "They went straight to the cabinet with the pull-down desk, where Sir Marmaduke writes when he does write, which is not often. It was locked, and I went to Sir Marmaduke for the key. "'You will find it in that French vase on the mantel,' he said. 'I don't open the desk once in three months, and should lose the key, if I carried it with me.' "I went to the mantel, turned the vase over, and the key dropped out. "'Sir Marmaduke has nothing to hide, gentlemen,' I said, 'so, you see, he keeps the key here.' "I went to the cabinet, and put the key in. As I did so I said: "'Look, gentlemen, someone has opened, or tried to open, this desk. Here is a mark, as if a knife had been thrust in to shoot the bolt.' "They looked where I pointed, and William Peters said to Cockshaw, 'It is as the man says. Someone has been trying to force the lock--one of the varlets, probably, who thought the knight might keep his money here.' "'It can be of no importance, one way or the other,' Cockshaw said roughly. "'Probably not, Mr. Cockshaw, but, at the same time I will make a note of it.' "I turned the key, and pulled down the door that makes a desk. They seemed to know all about it, for, without looking at the papers in the pigeonholes, they pulled open the lower drawer, and took two foreign-looking letters out from it. I will do them the justice to say that they both looked sorry, as they opened them, and looked at the writing. "'It is too true,' Peters said. 'Here is enough to hang a dozen men.' "They tumbled all the other papers into a sack, that one of the constables had brought with him. Then they searched all the other furniture, but they evidently did not expect to find anything. Then they went back into the hall. "'Well, gentlemen,' Sir Marmaduke said, 'have you found anything of a terrible kind?' "'We have found, I regret to say,' John Cockshaw said, 'the letters of which we were in search, in your private cabinet--letters that prove, beyond all doubt, that you are concerned in a plot similar to that discovered three years ago, to assassinate his majesty the king.' "Sir Marmaduke sprang to his feet. "'You have found letters of that kind in my cabinet?' he said, in a dazed sort of way. "The magistrate bowed, but did not speak. "'Then, sir,' Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, 'you have found letters that I have never seen. You have found letters that must have been placed there by some scoundrel, who plotted my ruin. I assert to you, on the honour of a gentleman, that no such letters have ever met my eye, and that, if such a proposition had been made to me, I care not by whom, I would have struck to the ground the man who offered me such an insult.' "'We are sorry, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs,' Mr. Peters said, 'most sorry, both of us, that it should have fallen to our duty to take so painful a proceeding against a neighbour; but, you see, the matter is beyond us. We have received a sworn information that you are engaged in such a plot. We are told that you are in the habit of locking up papers of importance in a certain cabinet, and there we find papers of a most damnatory kind. We most sincerely trust that you may be able to prove your innocence in the matter, but we have nothing to do but to take you with us, as a prisoner, to Lancaster.' "Sir Marmaduke unbuckled his sword, and laid it by. He was quieter than I thought he could be, in such a strait, for he has always been by nature, as you know, choleric. "'I am ready, gentlemen,' he said. "Peters whispered in Cockshaw's ear. "'Ah yes,' the other said, 'I had well-nigh forgotten,' and he turned to me. 'Where is Master Charles Carstairs?' "'He is not in the house,' I said. 'He rode away this morning, and did not tell me where he was going.' "'When do you expect him back?' "'I do not expect him at all,' I said. 'When Master Charles rides out to visit his friends, he sometimes stays away for a day or two.' "'Is it supposed,' Sir Marmaduke asked coldly, 'that my son is also mixed up in this precious scheme?' "'It is sworn that he was privy to it,' John Cockshaw said, 'and is, therefore, included in the orders for arrest.' "Sir Marmaduke did not speak, but he shut his lips tight, and his hand went to where the hilt of his sword would have been. Two of the constables went out and questioned the grooms, and found that you had, as I said, ridden off. When they came back, there was some talk between the magistrates, and then, as I said, four constables and some soldiers were left in the house. Sir Marmaduke's horse was brought round, and he rode away, with the magistrates and the other soldiers." "I am quite sure, Banks, that my father could have known nothing of those letters, or of any plot against William's life. I have heard him speak so often of the assassination plot, and how disgraceful it was, and how, apart from its wickedness, it had damaged the cause, that I am certain he would not have listened to a word about another such business." "I am sure of that, too," the old butler said; "but that is not the question, Master Charles. There are the papers. We know that Sir Marmaduke did not put them there, and that he did not know that they were there. But how is it to be proved, sir? Everyone knows that Sir Marmaduke is a Jacobite, and is regarded as the head of the party in this part of the country. He has enemies, and one of them, no doubt, has played this evil trick upon him, and the putting of your name in shows what the motive is." "But it is ridiculous, Banks. Who could believe that such a matter as this would be confided to a lad of my age?" "They might not believe it in their hearts, but people often believe what suits their interest. This accusation touches Sir Marmaduke's life; and his estate, even if his life were spared, would be confiscated. In such a case, it might be granted to anyone, and possibly even to the son of him they would call the traitor. But the accusation that the son was concerned, or was, at any rate, privy to the crime intended by the father, would set all against him, and public opinion would approve of the estates passing away from him altogether. "But now, sir, what do you think you had best do?" "Of course I shall go on, Banks, and let them take me to join my father in Lancaster jail. Do you think I would run away?" "No, sir, I don't think you would run away. I am sure you would not run away from fear, but I would not let them lay hands on me, until I had thought the matter well over. You might be able to do more good to Sir Marmaduke were you free, than you could do if you were caged up with him. He has enemies, we know, who are doing their best to ruin him, and, as you see, they are anxious that you, too, should be shut up within four walls." "You are right, Banks. At any rate, I will ride back and consult Mr. Jervoise. Besides, he ought to be warned, for he, too, may be arrested on the same charge. How did you get away without being noticed?" "I said that I felt ill--and I was not speaking falsely--at Sir Marmaduke's arrest, and would lie down. They are keeping a sharp lookout at the stables, and have a soldier at each door, to see that no one leaves the house, but I went out by that old passage that comes out among the ruins of the monastery." "I know, Banks. My father showed it to me, three years ago." "I shall go back that way again, sir, and no one will know that I have left the house. You know the trick of the sliding panel, Master Charles?" "Yes, I know it, and if I should want to come into the house again, I will come that way, Banks." "Here is a purse," the butler said. "You may want money, sir. Should you want more, there is a store hidden away, in the hiding place under the floor of the Priest's Chamber, at the other end of the passage. Do you know that?" "I know the Priest's Chamber of course, because you go through that to get to the long passage, but I don't know of any special hiding place there." "Doubtless, Sir Marmaduke did not think it necessary to show it you then, sir, but he would have done it later on, so I do not consider that I am breaking my oath of secrecy in telling you. You know the little narrow loophole in the corner?" "Yes, of course. There is no other that gives light to the room. It is hidden from view outside by the ivy." "Well, sir, you count four bricks below that, and you press hard on the next, that is the fifth, then you will hear a click, then you press hard with your heel at the corner, in the angle of the flag below, and you will find the other corner rise. Then you get hold of it and lift it up, and below there is a stone chamber, two feet long and about eighteen inches wide and deep. It was made to conceal papers in the old days, and I believe food was always kept there, in case the chamber had to be used in haste. "Sir Marmaduke uses it as a store place for his money. He has laid by a good deal every year, knowing that money would be wanted when troops had to be raised. I was with him about three weeks ago, when he put in there half the rents that had been paid in. So, if you want money for any purpose, you will know where to find it." "Thank you, Banks. It may be very useful to have such a store, now." "Where shall I send to you, sir, if I have any news that it is urgent you should know of?" "Send to Mr. Jervoise, Banks. If I am not there, he will know where I am to be found." "I will send Will Ticehurst, Master Charles. He is a stout lad, and a shrewd one, and I know there is nothing that he would not do for you. But you had best stop no longer. Should they find out that I am not in the house, they will guess that I have come to warn you, and may send out a party to search." Charlie at once mounted, and rode back to Mr. Jervoise's. "I expected you back," that gentleman said, as he entered. "Bad news travels apace, and, an hour since, a man brought in the news that Sir Marmaduke had been seen riding, evidently a prisoner, surrounded by soldiers, on the road towards Lancaster. So that villain we chased last night must have learnt something. I suppose they will be here tomorrow, but I do not see what serious charge they can have against us. We have neither collected arms, nor taken any steps towards a rising. We have talked over what we might do, if there were a landing made from France, but, as there may be no landing, that is a very vague charge." "Unfortunately, that is not the charge against my father. It is a much more serious business." And Charlie repeated the substance of what Banks had told him, interrupted occasionally by indignant ejaculations from Mr. Jervoise. "It is an infamous plot," he said, when the lad had concluded his story. "Infamous! There was never a word said of such a scheme, and no one who knows your father would believe it for an instant." "Yes, sir, but the judges, who do not know him, may believe it. No doubt those who put those papers there, will bring forward evidence to back it up." "I am afraid that will be the case. It is serious for us all," Mr. Jervoise said thoughtfully. "That man will be prepared to swear that he heard the plot discussed by us all. They seized your father, today, as being the principal and most important of those concerned in it, but we may all find ourselves in the same case tomorrow. I must think it over. "It is well that your man warned you. You had best not stay here tonight, for the house may be surrounded at daybreak. Harry shall go over, with you, to one of my tenants, and you can both sleep there. It will not be necessary for you to leave for another two or three hours. You had better go to him now; supper will be served in half an hour. I will talk with you again, afterwards." Harry was waiting outside the door, having also heard the news of Sir Marmaduke's arrest. "It is villainous!" he exclaimed, when he heard the whole story. "No doubt you are right, and that John Dormay is at the bottom of it all. The villain ought to be slain." "He deserves it, Harry; and, if I thought it would do good, I would gladly fight him, but I fear that it would do harm. Such a scoundrel must needs be a coward, and he might call for aid, and I might be dragged off to Lancaster. Moreover, he is Ciceley's father, and my cousin Celia's husband, and, were I to kill him, it would separate me altogether from them. However, I shall in all things be guided by your father. He will know what best ought to be done. "It is likely that he, too, may be arrested. This is evidently a deep plot, and your father thinks that, although the papers alone may not be sufficient to convict my father, the spy we had in our house will be ready to swear that he heard your father, and mine, and the others, making arrangements for the murder of William of Orange; and their own word to the contrary would count but little against such evidence, backed by those papers." They talked together for half an hour, and were then summoned to supper. Nothing was said, upon the subject, until the servitors had retired, and the meal was cleared away. Mr. Jervoise was, like Sir Marmaduke, a widower. "I have been thinking it all over," he said, when they were alone. "I have determined to ride, at once, to consult some of my friends, and to warn them of what has taken place. That is clearly my duty. I shall not return until I learn whether warrants are out for my apprehension. Of course, the evidence is not so strong against me as it is against Sir Marmaduke; still, the spy's evidence would tell as much against me as against him. "You will go up, Harry, with your friend, to Pincot's farm. It lies so far in the hills that it would probably be one of the last to be searched, and, if a very sharp lookout is kept there, a body of men riding up the valley would be seen over a mile away, and there would be plenty of time to take to the hills. There Charlie had better remain, until he hears from me. "You can return here, Harry, in the morning, for there is no probability whatever of your being included in any warrant of arrest. It could only relate to us, who were in the habit of meeting at Sir Marmaduke's. You will ride over to the farm each day, and tell Charlie any news you may have learnt, or take any message I may send you for him. "We must do nothing hastily. The first thing to learn, if possible, is whether any of us are included in the charge of being concerned in a plot against William's life. In the next place, who are the witnesses, and what evidence they intend to give. No doubt the most important is the man who was placed as a spy at Sir Marmaduke's." "As I know his face, sir," Charlie said eagerly, "could I not find him, and either force him to acknowledge that it is all false, or else kill him? I should be in my right in doing that, surely, since he is trying to swear away my father's life by false evidence." "I should say nothing against that, lad. If ever a fellow deserved killing he does; that is, next to his rascally employer. But his death would harm rather than benefit us. It would be assumed, of course, that we had removed him to prevent his giving evidence against us. No doubt his depositions have been taken down, and they would then be assumed to be true, and we should be worse off than if he could be confronted with us, face to face, in the court. We must let the matter rest, at present." "Would it be possible to get my father out of prison, sir? I am sure I can get a dozen men, from among the tenants and grooms, who would gladly risk their lives for him." "Lancaster jail is a very strong place," Mr. Jervoise said, "and I fear there is no possibility of rescuing him from it. Of course, at present we cannot say where the trial will take place. A commission may be sent down, to hold a special assizes at Lancaster, or the trial may take place in London. At any rate, nothing whatever can be done, until we know more. I have means of learning what takes place at Lancaster, for we have friends there, as well as at most other places. When I hear from them the exact nature of the charge, the evidence that will be given, and the names of those accused of being mixed up in this pretended plot, I shall be better able to say what is to be done. "Now, I must mount and ride without further delay. I have to visit all our friends who met at Lynnwood, and it will take me until tomorrow morning to see and confer with them." A few minutes after Mr. Jervoise had ridden off, his son and Charlie also mounted. A man went with them, with a supply of torches, for, although Harry knew the road--which was little better than a sheep track--well enough during the day, his father thought he might find it difficult, if not impossible, to follow it on a dark night. They congratulated themselves upon the precaution taken, before they had gone very far, for there was no moon, the sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain had begun to come down. They could hardly see their horses' heads, and had proceeded but a short distance, when it became necessary for their guide to light a torch. It took them, therefore, over two hours to reach the mountain farm. They were expected, otherwise the household would have been asleep. Mr. Jervoise had, as soon as he determined upon their going there, sent off a man on horseback, who, riding fast, had arrived before night set in. There was, therefore, a great turf fire glowing on the hearth when they arrived, and a hearty welcome awaiting them from the farmer, his wife, and daughters. Harry had, by his father's advice, brought two changes of clothes in a valise, but they were so completely soaked to the skin that they decided they would, after drinking a horn of hot-spiced ale that had been prepared for them, go at once to bed, where, in spite of the stirring events of the day, both went off to sleep, as soon as their heads touched the pillows. The sun was shining brightly, when they woke. The mists had cleared off, although they still hung round the head of Ingleborough, six miles away, and on some of the other hilltops. The change of weather had an inspiriting effect, and they went down to breakfast in a brighter and more hopeful frame of mind. As soon as the meal was over, Harry started for home. "I hope it won't be long before I can see you again, Harry," Charlie said, as he stood by the horse. "I hope not, indeed; but there is no saying. My father's orders are that I am to stay at home, if people come and take possession, and send a man off to you with the news privately, but that, if no one comes, I may myself bring you over any news there is; so I may be back here this afternoon." "I shall be looking out for you, Harry. Remember, it will be horribly dull for me up here, wondering and fretting as to what is going on." "I know, Charlie; and you shall hear, as soon as I get the smallest scrap of news. If I were you, I would go for a good walk among the hills. It will be much better for you than moping here. At any rate, you are not likely to get any news for some hours to come." Charlie took the advice, and started among the hills, not returning until the midday meal was ready. Before he had finished his dinner there was a tap at the door, and then a young fellow, whom he knew to be employed in Mr. Jervoise's stables, looked in. Charlie sprang to his feet. "What's the news?" he asked. "Master Harry bade me tell you, sir, that a magistrate, and four constables, and ten soldier men came today, at nine o'clock. He had returned but a half-hour when they rode up. They had an order for the arrest of Mr. Jervoise, and have been searching the house, high and low, for papers. No one is allowed to leave the place, but Master Harry came out to the stables and gave me his orders, and I did not find much difficulty in slipping out without their noticing me. Mr. Harry said that he had no news of Mr. Jervoise, nor any other news, save what I have told you. He bade me return at once as, later on, he may want to send me again. I was to be most careful that no one should see me when I got back, and, if I was caught, I was on no account to say where I had been to." The farmer insisted upon the young fellow sitting down at the table, and taking some food, before he started to go back. He required no pressing, but, as soon as his hunger was satisfied, he started again at a brisk run, which he kept up as long as Charlie's eye could follow him down the valley. Although the boy by no means wished Mr. Jervoise to be involved in his father's trouble, Charlie could not help feeling a certain amount of pleasure at the news. He thought it certain that, if his father escaped, he would have to leave the country, and that he would, in that case, take him as companion in his flight. If Mr. Jervoise and Harry also left the country, it would be vastly more pleasant for both his father and himself. Where they would go to, or what they would do, he had no idea, but it seemed to him that exile among strangers would be bearable, if he had his friend with him. It would not last many years, for surely the often talked-of landing could not be very much longer delayed; then they would return, share in the triumph of the Stuart cause, and resume their life at Lynnwood, and reckon with those who had brought this foul charge against them. That the Jacobite cause could fail to triumph was a contingency to which Charlie did not give even a thought. He had been taught that it was a just and holy cause. All his school friends, as well as the gentlemen who visited his father, were firm adherents of it, and he believed that the same sentiments must everywhere prevail. There was, then, nothing but the troops of William to reckon with, and these could hardly oppose a rising of the English people, backed by aid from France. It was not until after dark that the messenger returned. "Master Harry bade me tell you, sir, that a gipsy boy he had never seen before has brought him a little note from his father. He will not return at present, but, if Mr. Harry can manage to slip away unnoticed in the afternoon, tomorrow, he is to come here. He is not to come direct, but to make a circuit, lest he should be watched and followed, and it may be that the master will meet him here." Charlie was very glad to hear this. Harry could, of course, give him little news of what was going on outside the house, but Mr. Jervoise might be able to tell him something about his father, especially as he had said he had means of learning what went on in Lancaster jail. He was longing to be doing something. It seemed intolerable to him that he should be wandering aimlessly among the hills, while his father was lying in Lancaster, with a charge affecting his life hanging over him. What he could do he knew not, but anything would be better than doing nothing. Mr. Jervoise had seemed to think that it was out of the question to attempt a rescue from Lancaster; but surely, if he could get together forty or fifty determined fellows, a sudden assault upon the place might be successful. Then he set to work reckoning up the grooms, the younger tenants, and the sons of the older ones, and jotted down the names of twenty-seven who he thought might join in the attempt. "If Harry could get twenty-three from his people, that would make it up to the number," he said. "Of course, I don't know what the difficulties to be encountered may be. I have ridden there with my father, and I know that the castle is a strong one, but I did not notice it very particularly. The first thing to do will be to go and examine it closely. No doubt ladders will be required, but we could make rope ladders, and take them into the town in a cart, hidden under faggots, or something of that sort. "I do hope Mr. Jervoise will come tomorrow. It is horrible waiting here in suspense." The next morning, the hours seemed endless. Half a dozen times he went restlessly in and out, walking a little distance up the hill rising from the valley, and returning again, with the vain idea that Mr. Jervoise might have arrived. Still more slowly did the time appear to go, after dinner. He was getting into a fever of impatience and anxiety, when, about five o'clock, he saw a figure coming down the hillside from the right. It was too far away to recognize with certainty, but, by the rapid pace at which he descended the hill, he had little doubt that it was Harry, and he at once started, at the top of his speed, to meet him. The doubt was soon changed into a certainty. When, a few hundred yards up the hill, he met his friend, both were almost breathless. Harry was the first to gasp out: "Has my father arrived?" "Not yet." Harry threw himself down on the short grass, with an exclamation of thankfulness. "I have run nearly every foot of the way," he said, as soon as he got his breath a little. "I had awful difficulty in getting out. One of the constables kept in the same room with me, and followed me wherever I went. They evidently thought I might hear from my father, or try to send him a message. At last, I got desperate, and ran upstairs to that room next mine, and closed and locked the door after me. You know the ivy grows high up the wall there, and directly I got in, I threw open the casement and climbed down by it. It gave way two or three times, and I thought I was gone, but I stuck to it, and managed each time to get a fresh hold. The moment I was down, I ran along by the foot of the wall until I got round behind, made a dash into that clump of fir trees, crawled along in a ditch till I thought I was safe, and then made a run for it. I was so afraid of being followed that I have been at least three miles round, but I don't mind, now that my father hasn't arrived. I was in such a fright that he might come and go before I got here." Chapter 3: A Rescue. The two lads walked slowly down the hill together. Harry had heard no more than Charlie had done, of what was going on. The messenger from his father was a young fellow, of seventeen or eighteen, with a gipsy face and appearance. How he had managed to elude the vigilance of the men on watch, Harry did not know. He, himself, had only learnt his presence when, as he passed some bushes in the garden, a sharp whisper made him stop, and a moment later a hand was thrust through the foliage. He took the little note held out, and caught sight of the lad's face, through the leaves, as he leant forward and said: "Go on, sir, without stopping. They may be watching you." Harry had thrust the note into his pocket, and sauntered on for some time. He then returned to the house, and there read the letter, with whose contents Charlie was already acquainted. Eagerly, they talked over what each had been thinking of since they had parted, early on the previous day; and discussed Charlie's idea of an attack on Lancaster jail. "I don't know whether I could get as many men as you say, Charlie. I don't think I could. If my father were in prison, as well as yours, I am sure that most of the young fellows on the estate would gladly help to rescue him, but it would be a different thing when it came to risking their lives for anyone else. Of course I don't know, but it does not seem to me that fifty men would be of any use, at all, towards taking Lancaster Castle. It always seemed to me a tremendously strong place." "Yes, it does look so, Harry; but perhaps, on examining it closely, one would find that it is not so strong as it looks, by a long way. It seems to me there must be some way or other of getting father out, and, if there seems even the least bit of a chance, I shall try it." "And you may be sure I will stand by you, Charlie, whatever it is," Harry said heartily. "We have been just like brothers, and, of course, brothers ought to stick to each other like anything. If they don't, what is the use of being brothers? I daresay we shall know more, when we hear what my father has to say; and then we may see our way better." "Thank you, Harry. I knew you would stick by me. Of course, I don't want to do any mad sort of thing. There is no hurry, anyhow, and, as you say, when we know more about it, we may be able to hit upon some sort of plan." It was not until eight o'clock that Mr. Jervoise arrived. He looked grievously tired and worn out, but he spoke cheerfully as he came in. "I have had a busy two days of it, boys, as you may guess. I have no particularly good news to tell you, but, on the other hand, I have no bad news. I was in time to warn all our friends, and when the soldiers came for them in the morning, it was only to find that their nests were empty. "They have been searching the houses of all Sir Marmaduke's tenants, Charlie, and questioning man, woman, and child as to whether they have seen you. "Ah! Here is supper, and I am nearly famished. However, I can go on talking while I eat. I should have been here sooner, but I have been waiting for the return of the messenger I sent to Lancaster. "Yesterday morning there was an examination of your father, Charlie, or rather, an examination of the testimony against him. First the two letters that were discovered were put in. Without having got them word for word, my informer was able to give me the substance of them. Both were unsigned, and professed to have been written in France. The first is dated three months back. It alludes to a conversation that somebody is supposed to have had with Sir Marmaduke, and states that the agent who had visited him, and who is spoken of as Mr. H, had assured them that your father was perfectly ready to join, in any well-conceived design for putting a stop to the sufferings that afflicted the country, through the wars into which the foreign intruder had plunged it, even though the plan entailed the removal of the usurper. The writer assured Sir Marmaduke of the satisfaction that such an agreement on his part had caused at Saint Germains, and had heightened the high esteem in which Sir Marmaduke was held, for his long fidelity to the cause of his majesty. It then went on to state that a plan had been already formed, and that several gentlemen in the south were deeply pledged to carry it out, but that it was thought specially advisable that some from the north should also take part in it, as, from their persons being unknown near the court, they could act with more surety and safety. They would, therefore, be glad if he would take counsel, with the friends he had mentioned, as to what might seem to them the best course of proceeding. There was no occasion for any great haste and, indeed, some weeks must elapse before the blow was struck, in order that preparations should be made, in France, for taking instant advantage of it. "The rest of the letter was to the same purpose, but was really a repetition of it. The second letter was dated some time later, and was, as before, an answer to one the knight was supposed to have written. It highly approved of the suggestions therein made; that Sir Marmaduke and his friends should travel, separately and at a few days' interval, to London, and should take lodgings there in different parts of the town, and await the signal to assemble, near Richmond, when it was known that the king would go hunting there. It said that special note had been made of the offer of Sir Marmaduke's son, to mingle among the king's attendants and to fire the first shot, as, in the confusion, he would be able to escape and, being but a boy, as he said, none would be able to recognize him afterwards. "In the event, of course, of the first shot failing, the rest of the party, gathered in a body, would rush forward, despatch the usurper, cut their way, sword in hand, through any who barred their path to the point where their horses were concealed, and then at once scatter in various directions. For this great service, his majesty would not fail to evince the deepest gratitude, upon his restoration to his rightful throne, and pledged his royal word that each of the party should receive rank and dignity, together with ample estates, from the lands of which the chief supporters of the usurper would be deprived. "So you see, Charlie, you were to have the honour of playing the chief part in this tragedy." "Honour indeed!" Charlie exclaimed passionately. "Dishonour, sir. Was there ever so infamous a plot!" "It is a well-laid plot, Charlie, and does credit to the scoundrel who planned it. You see, he made certain that Sir Marmaduke would be attainted, and his estates forfeited, but there existed just a possibility that, as you are but a boy, though a good big one, it might be thought that, as you were innocent of the business, a portion at least of the estate might be handed to you. To prevent this, it was necessary that you also should be mixed up in the affair." "Has John Dormay appeared in the matter so far, Mr. Jervoise?" "Not openly, Charlie. My informant knows that there have been two or three meetings of Whig magistrates, with closed doors, and that at these he has been present, and he has no doubt, whatever, that it is he who has set the ball rolling. Still, there is no proof of this, and he did not appear yesterday. The man who did appear was the rascal who tried to overhear us the other night. He stated that he had been instigated by a gentleman of great loyalty--here one of the magistrates broke in, and said no name must be mentioned--to enter the household of Sir Marmaduke, a gentleman who, as he believed, was trafficking with the king's enemies. He had agreed to do this, in spite of the danger of such employment, moved thereto not so much by the hope of a reward as from his great loyalty to his majesty, and a desire to avert from him his great danger from popish plots. Having succeeded in entering Sir Marmaduke's service, he soon discovered that six gentlemen, to wit, myself and five friends, were in the habit of meeting at Lynnwood, where they had long and secret talks. Knowing the deep enmity and hostility these men bore towards his gracious majesty, he determined to run any hazard, even to the loss of his life, to learn the purport of such gatherings, and did, therefore, conceal himself, on one occasion behind the hangings of a window, and on another listened at an open casement, and did hear much conversation regarding the best manner in which the taking of the king's life could be accomplished. This, it was agreed, should be done in the forest at Richmond, where all should lie in wait, the said Sir Marmaduke Carstairs undertaking that he and his son would, in the first place, fire with pistol or musquetoon, and that, only if they should fail, the rest should charge forward on horse, overthrow the king's companions, and despatch him, Mr. William Jervoise undertaking the management of this part of the enterprise. No date was settled for this wicked business, it being, however, agreed that all should journey separately to London, and take up their lodging there under feigned names; lying hid until they heard from a friend at court, whose name was not mentioned, a day on which the king would hunt at Richmond. He further testified that, making another attempt to overhear the conspirators in order that he might gather fuller details as to the manner of the plot, he was seen by Master Charles Carstairs, who, taking him by surprise, grievously assaulted him, and that he and the others would have slain him, had he not overthrown Master Carstairs and effected his escape before the others, rushing out sword in hand, had time to assail him. "During his stay at Lynnwood he had, several times, watched at the window of the room where Sir Marmaduke Carstairs sits when alone, and where he writes his letters and transacts business, and that he observed him, more than once, peruse attentively papers that seemed to be of importance, for, after reading them, he would lay them down and walk, as if disturbed or doubtful in mind, up and down the room; and these papers he placed, when he had done with them, in the bottom drawer of a desk in his cabinet, the said desk being always carefully locked by him. "That is all that I learnt from Lancaster, save that instructions have been given that no pains should be spared to secure the persons of those engaged in the plot, and that a special watch was to be set at the northern ports, lest they should, finding their guilt discovered, try to escape from the kingdom. So you see that your good father, Sir Marmaduke, is in a state of sore peril, and that the rest of us, including yourself, will be in a like strait if they can lay hands on us." "But it is all false!" Charlie exclaimed. "It is a lie from beginning to end." "That is so, but we cannot prove it. The matter is so cunningly laid, I see no way to pick a hole in it. We are Jacobites, and as such long regarded as objects of suspicion by the Whig magistrates and others. There have been other plots against William's life, in which men of seeming reputation have been concerned. This man's story will be confirmed by the man who set him on, and by other hidden papers, if necessary. As to the discovery of the documents, we may know well enough that the fellow himself put them there, but we have no manner of proof of it. It is evident that there is nothing for us but to leave the country, and to await the time when the king shall have his own again. My other friends, who were with me this afternoon when the news came from Lancaster, all agreed that it would be throwing away our lives to stay here. We all have money by us, for each has, for years, laid by something for the time when money will be required to aid the king on his arrival. "Having agreed to take this course, we drew up a document, which we all signed, and which will be sent in when we have got clear away. In it we declare that being informed that accusations of being concerned in a plot against the life of William of Orange have been brought against us, we declare solemnly before God that we, and also Sir Marmaduke Carstairs and his son, are wholly innocent of the charge, and that, although we do not hesitate to declare that we consider the title of the said William to be king of this realm to be wholly unfounded and without reason, and should therefore take up arms openly against it on behalf of our sovereign did occasion offer, yet that we hold assassination in abhorrence, and that the crime with which we are charged is as hateful in our sight as in that of any Whig gentleman. As, however, we are charged, as we learn, by evilly disposed and wicked persons, of this design, and have no means of proving our innocence, we are forced to leave the realm until such time shall arrive when we can rely on a fair trial, when our reputation and honour will weigh against the word of suborned perjurers and knaves. "We were not forgetful of your father's case, and we debated long as to whether our remaining here could do him service. We even discussed the possibility of raising a force, and attacking Lancaster Castle. We agreed, however, that this would be nothing short of madness. The country is wholly unprepared at present. The Whigs are on the alert, and such an attempt would cost the lives of most of those concerned in it. Besides, we are all sure that Sir Marmaduke would be the first to object to numbers of persons risking their lives in an attempt which, even if, for the moment, successful, must bring ruin upon all concerned in it. Nor do we see that, were we to remain and to stand in the dock beside him, it would aid him. Our word would count for no more than would this protest and denial that we have signed together. A prisoner's plea of not guilty has but a feather's weight against sworn evidence. "At the same time, Charlie, I do not intend to leave the country until I am sure that nothing can be done. As force is out of the question, I have advised the others to lose not an hour in trying to escape and, by this time, they are all on the road. Two are making for Bristol, one for Southampton, and two for London. It would be too dangerous to attempt to escape by one of the northern ports. But, though force cannot succeed, we may be able to effect your father's escape by other means, and it is for this purpose that I am determined to stay, and I shall do so until all hope is gone. Alone you could effect nothing; but I, knowing who are our secret friends, may be able to use them to advantage. "We will stay here tonight, but tomorrow we must change our quarters, for the search will be a close one. During the day we will go far up over the hills, but tomorrow night we will make for Lancaster. I have warned friends there to expect us, and it is the last place where they would think of searching for us." "You will take me with you, too, father?" Harry exclaimed eagerly; while Charlie expressed his gratitude to Mr. Jervoise, for thus determining to risk his own life in the endeavour to effect the escape of Sir Marmaduke. "Yes, I intend to take you with me, Harry. They will pretend, of course, that, in spite of our assertions of innocence, our flight is a confession of guilt, and you may be sure that we shall be condemned in our absence, and our estates declared confiscated, and bestowed upon some of William's minions. There will be no place for you here. "My own plans are laid. As you know, your mother came from the other side of the border, and a cousin of hers, with whom I am well acquainted, has gone over to Sweden, and holds a commission in the army that the young king is raising to withstand Russia and Saxony; for both are thinking of taking goodly slices of his domains. I could not sit down quietly in exile, and, being but forty, I am not too old for service, and shall take a commission if I can obtain it. There are many Scottish Jacobites who, having fled rather than acknowledge Dutch William as their king, have taken service in Sweden, where their fathers fought under the great Gustavus Adolphus; and, even if I cannot myself take service, it may be that I shall be able to obtain a commission for you. You are nearly sixteen, and there are many officers no older. "Should evil befall your father, Charlie, which I earnestly hope will not be the case, I shall regard you as my son, and shall do the same for you as for Harry. "And now, I will to rest, for I have scarce slept the last two nights, and we must be in the saddle long before daybreak." The little bedroom, that Charlie had used the two previous nights, was given up to Mr. Jervoise; while Harry and Charlie slept on some sheep skins, in front of the kitchen fire. Two hours before daybreak they mounted and, guided by the farmer, rode to a shepherd's hut far up among the hills. Late in the afternoon, a boy came up from the farm, with the news that the place had been searched by a party of troopers. They had ridden away without discovering that the fugitives had been at the farm, but four of the party had been left, in case Mr. Jervoise should come there. The farmer, therefore, warned them against coming back that way, as had been intended, naming another place where he would meet them. As soon as the sun was setting they mounted and, accompanied by the shepherd on a rough pony, started for Lancaster. After riding for three hours, they stopped at a lonely farm house, at which Mr. Jervoise and his friends had held their meeting on the previous day. Here they changed their clothes for others that had been sent for their use from Lancaster. Mr. Jervoise was attired as a small trader, and the lads in garb suitable to boys in the same rank of life. They still, however, retained their swords, and the pistols in their holsters. Three miles farther they met their host, as arranged, at some crossroads, and rode on until within three miles of Lancaster. They then dismounted, placed their pistols in their belts, and handed their horses to the two men, who would take them back to the hut in the hills, where they would remain until required. It was two o'clock in the morning when they entered Lancaster and, going up to a small house, standing in a garden in the outskirts of the town, Mr. Jervoise gave three low knocks in quick succession. The door was opened almost immediately. No light was shown, and they entered in the dark, but as soon as the door was closed behind them, a woman came out with a candle from an inner room. "I am glad to see you safe, Mr. Jervoise," a man said. "My wife and I were beginning to be anxious, fearing that you might have fallen into the hands of your enemies." "No, all has gone well, Herries; but it is a long ride from the hills here, and we walked the last three miles, as we wanted to get the horses back again before daylight. We are deeply grateful to you for giving us shelter." "I would be ready to do more than that," the man said, "for the sake of the good cause. My wife's father and mine both fell at Naseby, and we are as loyal to the Stuarts as they were. You are heartily welcome, sir, and, as we keep no servant, there will be none to gossip. You can either remain in the house, in which case none will know of your presence here; or, if you wish to go abroad in the town, I will accompany you, and will introduce you to any acquaintance I may meet as a cousin of my wife who, with his two sons, has come over from Preston to pay us a visit. I don't think that anyone would know you, in that attire." "I will run no more risks than are necessary, Herries. Those I wish to see will visit me here, and, if I go out at all, it will not be until after dark." For a fortnight they remained at the house. After dark each day, a man paid Mr. Jervoise a visit. He was the magistrates' clerk, and had an apartment in the castle. From him they learned that a messenger had been despatched to London, with an account of the evidence taken in Sir Marmaduke's case; and that, at the end of twelve days, he had returned with orders that all prisoners and witnesses were to be sent to town, where they would be examined, in the first place, by his majesty's council; and where Sir Marmaduke's trial for high treason would take place. They were to be escorted by a party of twelve troopers, under the command of a lieutenant. The fugitives had, before, learned that the search for Mr. Jervoise had been given up; it being supposed that he, with his son and young Carstairs had, with their accomplices, all ridden for the coast at the first alarm, and had probably taken ship for France before the orders had arrived that all outgoing vessels should be searched. Harry and Charlie had both been away for two or three days, and had been occupied in getting together ten young fellows, from the two estates, who would be willing and ready to attempt to rescue Sir Marmaduke from his captors' hands. They were able to judge, with tolerable accuracy, when the messenger would return from London and, two days previously, the men had been directed to ride, singly and by different roads, and to put up at various small inns in Manchester, each giving out that he was a farmer in from the country, either to purchase supplies, or to meet with a customer likely to buy some cattle he wished to dispose of. Charlie had paid a visit to Lynnwood, and had gone by the long passage into the Priest's Chamber, and had carried off the gold hidden there. As soon as it was known that the messenger had returned, Herries had borrowed a horse, and had ridden with a note to the farmer, telling him to go up to the hills and bring the horses down, with one of his own, to the place where he had parted from them, when they entered Lancaster. There he was met by Mr. Jervoise and the lads and, mounting, they started with the spare horse for Blackburn, choosing that line in preference to the road through Preston, as there were troops stationed at the latter town. The next day they rode on to Manchester. They went round, that evening, to the various inns where the men had put up, and directed them to discover whether, as was probable, the escort was to arrive that night. If so, they were to mount at daybreak, and assemble where the road crossed the moor, three miles north of Chapel le Frith, where they would find Mr. Jervoise awaiting them. At nine o'clock that evening the troop rode in and, at daybreak, Mr. Jervoise and the boys started. Two of the men were already at the spot indicated, and, half an hour later, the whole of them had arrived. Mr. Jervoise led them back to a spot that he had selected, where the road dipped into a deep valley, in which, sheltered from the winds, was a small wood. Leaving one at the edge, to give warning directly the escort appeared on the road over the brow, he told the rest to dismount. Most of them were armed with pistols. All had swords. "Do you," he said, "who are good shots with your pistols, fire at the men when I give the word--let the rest aim at the horses. The moment you have opened fire, dash forward and fall on them. We are already as numerous as they are, and we ought to be able to dismount or disable four or five of them, with our first fire. I shall give the order as Sir Marmaduke arrives opposite me. Probably the officer will be riding. I shall make the officer my special mark, for it may be that he has orders to shoot the prisoner, if any rescue is attempted. "I don't suppose they will be at all prepared for an attack. They were vigilant, no doubt, for the first two days but, once out of Lancashire, they will think that there is no longer any fear of an attempt at rescue. Pursue those that escape for half a mile or so, and then draw rein, and, as soon as they are out of sight, strike due north across the fells. Keep to the east of Glossop, and then make your way singly to your homes. It will be better for you to travel up through Yorkshire, till you are north of Ingleborough, so as to come down from the north to your farms. "I know that you have all engaged in this affair for love of Sir Marmaduke or myself, and because you hate to see a loyal gentleman made the victim of lying knaves; but when we come back with the king, you may be sure that Sir Marmaduke and I will well reward the services you have rendered." It was an hour before the man on the lookout warned them that the troop had just appeared over the hill. They mounted now, and, pistol in hand, awaited the arrival of the party. Two troopers came first, trotting carelessly along, laughing and smoking. A hundred yards behind came the main body, four troopers first, then the lieutenant and Sir Marmaduke, followed by the other six troopers. With outstretched arm, and pistol pointed through the undergrowth, Mr. Jervoise waited till the officer, who was riding on his side of the road, came abreast of him. He had already told the boys that he intended to aim at his shoulder. "They are the enemies of the king," he said, "but I cannot, in cold blood, shoot down a man with whom I have no cause for quarrel. I can depend upon my aim, and he will not be twelve paces from the muzzle of my pistol." He fired. The officer gave a sudden start, and reeled on his horse, and, before he could recover himself, the band, who had fired at the flash of the first pistol, dashed out through the bushes and fell upon the troopers. Four men had dropped, one horse had fallen, and two others were plunging wildly as, with a shout, their assailants dashed upon them. All who could turn their horse's head rode furiously off, some along the road forward, others back towards Manchester. The lieutenant's horse had rolled over with him, as that of Mr. Jervoise struck it on the shoulder, with the full impetus of its spring. "It is all over, Sir Marmaduke, and you are a free man. We have nothing to do now but to ride for it." And, before the knight had fairly recovered from his astonishment, he found himself riding south across the moor, with his son on one side of him, and Mr. Jervoise and Harry on the other. "You have saved my life, Jervoise," he said, holding out his hand to his friend. "They had got me so firmly in their clutches, that I thought my chances were at an end. "How are you, Charlie? I am right glad to see you, safe and sound, for they had managed to include you in their pretended plot, and, for aught I knew, you had been all this time lying in a cell next mine in Lancaster Castle. "But who are the good fellows who helped you?" Mr. Jervoise briefly gave an account of the affair. "They are only keeping up a sham pursuit of the soldiers, so as to send them well on their way. I told them not to overtake them, as there was no occasion for any further bloodshed, when you were once out of their hands. By tomorrow morning they will all be at work on their farms again, and, if they keep their own counsel, need not fear." Suddenly Sir Marmaduke reined in his horse. "We are riding south," he said. "Certainly we are," Mr. Jervoise said. "Why not? That is our only chance of safety. They will, in the first place, suspect us of having doubled back to the hills, and will search every farmhouse and cottage. Our only hope of escape is to ride either for Bristol, or one of the southern ports." "I must go back," Sir Marmaduke said doggedly. "I must kill that scoundrel John Dormay, before I do anything else. It is he who has wound this precious skein, in order to entrap us, expecting, the scoundrel, to have my estates bestowed on him as a reward." "It were madness to ride back now, Sir Marmaduke. It would cost you your life, and you would leave Charlie here fatherless, and with but little chance of ever regaining the estate. You have but to wait for a time, and everything will right itself. As soon as the king comes to his own, your estates will be restored, and then I would not seek to stay your hand, if you sought vengeance upon this cunning knave." "Besides, father," Charlie put in, "much as he deserves any punishment you can give him, you would not kill cousin Celia's husband and Ciceley's father. When the truth is all made known, his punishment will be bitter enough, for no honest man would offer him a hand, or sit down to a meal with him. "Ciceley has been as a young sister to me, and her mother has ever been as kind as if she had been my aunt. I would not see them grieved, even if that rogue came off scot free from punishment; but, at any rate, father, I pray you to let it pass at present. This time we have happily got you out of the clutches of the Whigs, but, if you fell into them again, you may be sure they would never give us another chance." Sir Marmaduke still sat irresolute, and Charlie went on: "Besides, father, Mr. Jervoise has risked his life in lingering in Lancashire to save you, and the brave fellows who aided us to rescue you have risked theirs, both in the fray and afterwards, if their share in it should ever be known; and it would not be fair to risk failure, after all they have done. I pray you, father, be guided by the opinion of your good friend, Mr. Jervoise." Sir Marmaduke touched his horse's flank with his heel. "You have prevailed, Charlie. Your last argument decided me. I have no right to risk my life, after my good friends have done so much to save me. John Dormay may enjoy his triumph for a while, but a day of reckoning will surely come. "Now, tell me of the others, Jervoise. Have all escaped in safety?" "All. Your boy brought me the news of your arrest, and that we were charged with plotting William's assassination. I rode that night with the news, and next day all were on the road to the coast, and were happily on board and away before the news of their escape could be sent to the ports." "And now, what are your plans, Jervoise--that is, if you have any plans, beyond reaching a port and taking ship for France?" "I am going to Sweden," Mr. Jervoise said, and then repeated the reasons that he had given Charlie for taking this step. "I am too old for the wars," Sir Marmaduke said. "I was sixty last birthday, and though I am still strong and active, and could strike a shrewd blow in case of need, I am too old for the fatigues and hardships of campaigning. I could not hope, at my age, to obtain a commission in the Swedish service." "No, I did not think of your joining the army, Sir Marmaduke, though I warrant you would do as well as most; but I thought that you might take up your residence at Stockholm, as well as at Saint Germains. You will find many Scottish gentlemen there, and not a few Jacobites who, like yourself, have been forced to fly. Besides, both the life and air would suit you better than at Saint Germains, where, by all accounts the life is a gay one, and men come to think more of pleasure than of duty. Moreover, your money will go much further in Sweden than in France." Sir Marmaduke, checking the horse's speed, said, "I have not so much as a penny in my pocket, and methinks I am like to have some trouble in getting at the hoard I have been collecting, ever since Dutch William came to the throne, for the benefit of His Majesty when he arrives." "You will have no trouble in getting at that, father," Charlie said laughing, "seeing that you have nothing to do but to lean over, and put your hand into my holsters, which are so full, as you see, that I am forced to carry my pistols in my belt." "What mean you, lad?" "I mean, father, that I have the whole of the hoard, that was stowed away in the priest's hiding place;" and he then related how Banks had revealed to him the secret of the hiding place, and how he had, the night before Sir Marmaduke was removed from Lancaster Castle, visited the place and carried away the money. "I could not see Banks," he said, "but I left a few words on a scrap of paper, saying that it was I who had taken the money. Otherwise he would have been in a terrible taking, when he discovered that it was gone." "That is right good news, indeed, lad. For twelve years I have set aside half my rents, so that in those bags in your holsters there are six years' income, and the interest of that money, laid out in good mortgages, will suffice amply for my wants in a country like Sweden, where life is simple and living cheap. The money itself shall remain untouched, for your use, should our hopes fail and the estates be lost for all time. That is indeed a weight off my mind. "And you are, I hope, in equally good case, Jervoise, for if not, you know that I would gladly share with you?" "I am in very good case, Sir Marmaduke, though I none the less thank you for your offer. I too have, as you know, put aside half my income. My estates are not so large as those of Lynnwood. Their acreage may be as large, but a good deal of it is mountain land, worth but little. My fund, therefore, is not as large as yours, but it amounts to a good round sum; and as I hope, either in the army or in some other way, to earn an income for myself, it is ample. I shall be sorry to divert it from the use for which I intended it, but that cannot now be helped. I have had the pleasure, year by year, of putting it by for the king's use, and, now that circumstances have changed, it will be equally useful to myself." "Do you know this country well, Jervoise?" "Personally I know nothing about it, save that the sun tells me that, at present, I am travelling south, Sir Marmaduke. But, for the last few days I have been so closely studying a map, that I know the name of every town and village on the various routes." "And whither think you of going?" "To London or Southampton. Strangers are far less noticed in large towns than in small, and we could hardly hope to find a ship, bound for Sweden, in any of the Dorset or Devon ports." Chapter 4: In Sweden. After much discussion, the party agreed that it would be best to make for Southampton. The road thither was less frequented than that leading to London, and there were fewer towns to be passed, and less chance of interruption. Mr. Jervoise had brought with him a valise and suit of clothes for Sir Marmaduke, of sober cut and fashion. They avoided all large towns and, at the places where they put up, represented themselves as traders travelling from the Midlands to the southern coast, and they arrived at Southampton without having excited the smallest suspicion. Indeed, throughout the journey, they had heard no word of the affray near Chapel le Frith, and knew, therefore, that the news had not travelled as fast as they had. At Southampton, however, they had scarcely put up at an inn when the landlord said: "I suppose, gentlemen, they are talking of nothing else, in London, but the rescue of a desperate Jacobite by his friends. The news only reached here yesterday." "It has occasioned a good deal of scare," Mr. Jervoise replied. "I suppose there is no word of the arrest of the man, or his accomplices? We have travelled but slowly, and the news may have passed us on the way." "Not as yet," the landlord replied. "They say that all the northern and eastern ports are watched, and they make sure of catching him, if he presents himself there. The general opinion is that he will, for a time, go into hiding with his friends, in the hills of Cumberland or Westmoreland, or perhaps on the Yorkshire moors; but they are sure to catch him sooner or later." "It is a bad business altogether," Mr. Jervoise said, "and we can only hope that all guilty persons will in time get the punishment they so well deserve. How can trade be carried on, if the country is to be disturbed by plots, and conspiracies?" "How, indeed?" the landlord repeated heartily. "I do not meddle in politics, being content to earn my living by my business, and to receive all who can pay their reckoning, without caring a jot whether they be Whigs or Tories." The next morning Mr. Jervoise and Sir Marmaduke went down to the port, leaving the lads to wander about the town at their pleasure, as two persons were likely to attract less attention than four. They found that there were two vessels in port, loading with munitions of war for Sweden, and that one of them would sail shortly. They at once went on board her, and saw the captain. "Do you carry any passengers?" "None have applied so far," the captain said; "but, if they were to offer, I should not say no to them." "We want to take passage for Sweden," Mr. Jervoise said. "The King of that country is, as they say, fitting out an army. Clothes are as necessary for troops as swords and guns, and we think we could obtain a contract for these goods. There is no hope of doing so, unless we ourselves go over, and, though sorely loath to do so, for neither of us have ever before set foot on board a ship, we determined on making the journey, together with our two clerks, for whom we will take passage at the same rate as for ourselves, seeing that they are both related to us." "Have you any goods with you?" "We shall take over but a bale or two of cloth, as samples of the goods we can supply; but, beyond that, we have but little luggage, seeing that our stay may be a very short one." There was a little haggling for terms, as the two gentlemen did not wish to appear eager to go; but the matter was finally settled to the satisfaction of both parties. On their return to the inn, Mr. Jervoise took the host aside. "We have business connected with our trade in cloth in Sweden, where we hope to obtain a large contract. The matter may occupy us a week, or a month or two for aught we know, and we do not want our horses to be eating their heads off, here, while we are away. Besides, we may be able, on our return, to take a passage to one of the Devonshire ports, which would suit us much better. But we should not be able to do so, if there were need for returning here for our horses. Therefore, we would fain dispose of them, and, if you can find us a purchaser by tomorrow night, we will pay you a fair commission on the money we receive." "I doubt not that I can do that readily enough," the landlord said. "Three of them are fine animals, fit for any gentleman's riding. The other is a stout hackney. Trust me, I will get the best price I can for them." The next day he came up to their room. "I have had a good offer for the horses," he said. "Two gentlemen, who arrived yesterday from France, and are staying at the inn of a friend of mine, are requiring horses for themselves and their servants, and I have promised my friend a slice of my commission, if he will bring them round hither. Will you name your price for them?" "No, I would rather not," Mr. Jervoise said cautiously. "If we asked too high a figure, we might frighten the purchasers away. If we should ask too little, we should be the losers. I daresay they have named, to your friend, the price they are willing to give. You had better ask from them a good bit above that, then you can come down little by little, and maybe, seeing the horses are really good ones, they may advance a bit. I am not used to a horse deal, and will leave it to you to make the bargain. We are sorry to part with the animals, but they might die on the voyage, or get so injured as to be worthless; and, moreover, we shall have no use for them there. Therefore, as we must sell, we are ready to take the best terms we can get." When they returned to the inn, after an absence of two hours, they found that the landlord had sold the horses, for a sum nearly approaching their value, the gentlemen being as anxious to purchase them as they were to sell. The next day, they bought three or four rolls of west country cloth, and a supply of clothes suitable to their condition, together with trunks for their carriage. All these were sent down to the ship, in the course of the afternoon, and they themselves embarked late in the evening, as she was to set sail at daybreak. The lads, accustomed to spacious and airy rooms, were quite taken aback at the small and stuffy cabin allotted to their joint use, and slept but badly, for the loading of the ship continued by torchlight, until within an hour of the time of their departure. After tossing about for some hours in their narrow beds, they were glad to go on deck, and to plunge their heads into a pail of water, and were then, after combing their long hair, able to take an interest in what was passing round them. The sailors were busy; stowing away the cargo last received, tidying the decks, and coiling down the ropes. There were but few persons on the quay, for those who had been engaged in loading the cargo had gone off to bed, as soon as the last bale was on board. In half an hour the sailors began to hoist the sails, the hawsers were thrown off, and, with a gentle wind blowing aft, the ship glided along past the shore, being helped by the tide, which had begun to ebb half an hour before. The lads were greatly interested in watching the well-wooded slope on the left, with the stately ruins of Tintern Abbey rising above the trees. Then they passed the round fort, at the water's edge, on their right, and issued out from Southampton Water into the broad sheet between the island and the mainland. It was dotted with sails; fishing craft and coasters for the most part, but with some larger ships bound from the east to Southampton, and others that had come in through the Solent. This was very entertaining to the boys, and they were still more pleased when they saw the fortifications of Portsmouth, with cannon pointing seaward, and with many vessels riding in the strait by the side of the town. "That fort would give the French or the Dutch a hot reception, were they at any time to think to capture the dockyard and shipping," Sir Marmaduke said. "The Dutch have already captured the place, and that without shedding a drop of blood," Mr. Jervoise remarked. "'That is true enough," the knight said, stamping his foot angrily on the deck, "but what has been won so easily may be lost as quickly. I have seen several changes since I can first remember, and I hope I may live to see another. However, we need not talk of that now." "No, indeed," Mr. Jervoise agreed. "It may be, Sir Marmaduke, that it would be better if we had talked and thought less of it, during the last twelve years; better for ourselves, and for these lads. We might still have been ready to join His Majesty as soon as he landed, but as, till then, we could do nothing, it seems to me now that it would have been wiser had we gone about our business without worrying our heads, to say nothing of risking them, about a matter that may not take place during our lives; as we know, well enough, the King of France uses the Stuarts only for his own convenience, and at heart cares nothing for them or their cause. It is convenient to have the means of creating trouble here, and of so weakening William; and it may be that, some day or other, it may suit him to send over an army here to fight William, with the aid of the Stuarts' friends, instead of fighting him in Holland or elsewhere. But whether he may think fit to do so in one year, or in twenty years hence, who can say? It is a question solely of military policy. "The Stuarts are simply used, by the French king, to pull English chestnuts out of the fire. I would that they had established themselves anywhere rather than in France. It does them harm with vast numbers who would otherwise be their friends, at any rate in England. In Scotland it is otherwise, for Scotland has always been in alliance with France; but in England it is different. France has always been the national foe; and, had not Charles and James proved themselves so subservient to Louis, William of Orange would never have been crowned king. There are vast numbers in England who would rather see a Stuart than a Dutchman on the throne, but who will never strike a blow to replace them there, and that because they will come over backed up by French bayonets. "Well, let us talk of something else. If the time ever comes to act, we shall be ready, but till then we can let the matter sleep, the more so as we have a new life before us, and plenty of other things to occupy our thoughts." "What is it, father," Harry asked, "that the Swedes and Danes are going to fight about?" "It is a difficult question, Harry; but there can be little doubt that Denmark is in the wrong. The King of Sweden died in April, 1697. His death was unfortunate, for the powers contending in Europe had all agreed to refer their quarrels to his mediation. At his death, Denmark endeavoured to obtain the honour, but failed; and by the mediation, chiefly, of the Swedish regency, peace was concluded between France, England, and Holland, in the autumn of that year; and, shortly afterwards, the struggle between the German Emperor, France, and Spain was also concluded, but not at all to the satisfaction of the Swedish mediators. "While Sweden was occupied in this matter of the pacification of Europe, the King of Denmark thought to take advantage of the fact that Charles of Sweden was but a minor, to press Frederick, Duke of Holstein, who was in close alliance with him. "There had long been serious differences between the rulers of Denmark and Holstein, both of whom were branches of the Oldenburg family, and this in reference to the Duchy of Schleswig. The quarrel had arisen from the act of Christian the Third, of Denmark, who decreed that the descendants of his brother Adolphus should govern Holstein, jointly with the King of Denmark, and that Holstein and Schleswig should belong to them in common, neither making any change in Holstein without the consent of the other A more foolish arrangement could not have been conceived, for anyone might have foreseen that it would lead to disputes and troubles. In fact, quarrels continually arose, until, at the Peace of Rosahild, in 1658, the duchy was adjudged to Denmark. "Holstein, however, never acquiesced in this, and in 1675 there was war, when, Holstein being defeated, the Danes imprisoned its duke, Christian Albertus, until he signed a renunciation of all his rights. "His troops were disarmed, and all his towns and fortresses garrisoned by Danish troops. On his release, the duke went to Hamburg, where he remained till, at the Peace of Fontainebleau, four years later, he was replaced in possession of his estates and rights of sovereignty. "But this did not last long. New troubles arose, but Sweden, England, and Holland interested themselves in favour of the duke, and a peace was concluded in 1689, by which he was confirmed in the rights given him, ten years before, with full liberty to raise a certain number of troops, and of building fortresses, on the condition that he should raise none to the prejudice of Denmark. "This was another of those stipulations which inevitably lead to trouble, for it afforded to Denmark a pretext for continual complaint and interference. When Frederick the Fourth succeeded his father as Duke of Holstein, in 1694, the quarrel grew so hot that Denmark would have invaded Holstein, had not the parties to the Treaty of '89 interfered, and brought about a conference. This lasted all through the year 1696, but the negotiators appointed to settle the matter were unable to arrive at any conclusion. "The following year, Charles of Sweden, who had just succeeded his father, furnished the duke with some troops, to help him to build some forts that were intended to protect the frontier, in case of invasion by Denmark. Christian of Denmark at once attacked and captured these forts, and levelled them to the ground. The duke, being too weak to engage in a war with his powerful neighbour, did not resent this attack, and the negotiations were continued as before. In view of the danger of the situation, and the necessity for a monarch at the head of affairs, the Swedish Diet met, at Stockholm, to take part in the funeral of the late king, which was to be performed on the 24th of November, and to deliberate upon the situation. "By the will of the late king, Charles was not to ascend the throne until he reached the age of eighteen, but the diet passed a vote overruling this, and, as the regency concurred, he was at once crowned, and the alliance with Holstein was cemented by the marriage, that had been previously arranged between Charles's eldest sister and the Duke of Holstein, being celebrated at Stockholm. Charles the Twelfth at once concluded treaties with France, England, and Holland; while Denmark is reported to have prepared for war by making a secret alliance with Augustus of Saxony, King of Poland, and the Czar of Russia. Both these monarchs were doubtless desirous of extending their dominions, at the cost of Sweden, whose continental possessions are considerable. "Augustus is not yet very firmly seated on the throne of Poland. There are several parties opposed to him, and these united in obtaining, from the diet, a refusal to pay the Saxon troops Augustus had brought with him. The king, no doubt, considered that these could be employed for the conquest of Livonia, and that the addition of so large a territory to Poland would so add to his popularity, that he would have no further troubles in his kingdom. "Charles the Twelfth, being in ignorance of this secret agreement, sent an embassy to Russia, to announce his accession to the throne. The ambassadors were kept a long time waiting for an audience, as the czar was bringing a war with the Turks to a conclusion, and did not wish to throw off the mask until he was free to use his whole force against Sweden. The ambassadors were, at last, received civilly, but the czar evaded taking the usual oaths of friendship, and, after long delays, the embassy returned to Sweden, feeling somewhat disquieted as to the intentions of the czar, but having no sure knowledge of them. "The King of Poland was more successful in disguising his leaning towards Denmark, sending the warmest assurances to Charles, requesting him to act as mediator in the quarrel between himself and the Duke of Brandenburg, and signing a treaty of alliance with Sweden. But, while Sweden had no idea of the triple alliance that had been formed against her, the intention of Denmark to make war was evident enough, for King Christian was gathering a great naval armament. "The Duke of Holstein, becoming much alarmed at these preparations, hastened on the fortifications of Tonningen, on the Eider, three leagues from its mouth. The garrison of the place was a weak one, and a thousand Swedish troops were thrown in to strengthen it. The King of Denmark complained that this was a breach of the treaty, but, as his own preparations for war were unmistakable, no one could blame the Duke of Holstein for taking steps to defend his territories. "As you know, Christian of Denmark died about this time, and was succeeded by his son Frederick the Fourth. "Last August, he commenced the war, by sending a naval squadron to cover the passage of four regiments into Pomerania. Charles of Sweden, seeing that Holstein must be crushed by its powerful neighbour, called upon Holland and the Duke of Lunenburg, who were with Sweden guarantors of the treaty, to enforce its provisions; and a joint protest was sent to the King of Denmark, who was informed that, if he invaded Holstein, they should consider it a breach of the Treaty of Altena, and treat him as a common enemy. Frederick replied by sending some troops into the duchy. "No active operations took place, until the beginning of this year. Up to that time, Sweden had not doubted the friendship of the King of Poland, and Charles, at first, could hardly believe the reports he received from the governor of Livonia, that the Saxon troops were approaching the frontier. "A few days later, however, came the news that they were advancing against Riga. The governor prepared for defence, and hastily mounted cannon on the walls. His powers of resistance, however, were lessened by the fact that the river Duna was frozen over. Fleming, who commanded the Saxon troops, arrived before the town, early in February, with four thousand men. The governor had set fire to the suburbs on the previous day; and Fleming was surprised to find that, instead of taking it by surprise, as he had hoped, the place was in a position to offer a stout resistance. However, he attacked the fort of Cobrun, on the opposite side of the river, and carried it by assault. "The news was brought to young Charles the Twelfth when he was out hunting, a sport of which he is passionately fond. By all accounts, he is an extraordinary young fellow. He is not content with hunting bears and shooting them, but he and his followers engage them armed only with forked sticks. With these they attack the bears, pushing and hustling the great creatures, with the forks of their sticks, until they are completely exhausted, when they are bound and sent away. In this hunt Charles took fourteen alive, one of which nearly killed him before it was captured. He did not break up the hunting party, but continued his sport to the end, sending off, however, orders for the concentration of all the troops, in Livonia and Finland, to act against the Saxons. "As soon as the King of Denmark heard of the siege of Riga, he ordered the Duke of Wurtemberg-Neustadt, his commander-in-chief, to enter Holstein with his army, sixteen thousand strong. All of that country was at once overrun, the ducal domains seized, and great contributions exacted from Schleswig and Holstein. Fleming and the Saxons, after one severe repulse, forced the garrison of the fort of Dunamund, commanding the mouth of the Duna, to surrender. Tonningen is the only fortress that now holds out in Holstein. So you see, lads, there is every chance of there being brisk fighting, and I warrant the young King of Sweden will not be backward in the fray. A man who is fond of engaging with bears, armed with nothing but a forked stick, is not likely to hang back in the day of battle. "But, at present, we will say no more on the matter. Now that we have got beyond the shelter of the island, the waves are getting up, and the vessel is beginning to toss and roll. I see that Sir Marmaduke has retired to his cabin. I mean to remain here as long as I can, and I should advise you both to do the same. I have always heard that it is better to fight with this sickness of the sea, as long as possible, and that it is easier to do so in fresh air than in a close cabin." The lads quite agreed with this opinion, but were, in spite of their efforts, presently prostrate. They remained on deck for some hours, and then crawled to their cabin, where they remained for the next three days, at the end of which time they came on deck again, feeling better, but as weak as if they had suffered from a long illness. Mr. Jervoise had been in frequently to see them, having escaped the malady, from which, as he told them, Sir Marmaduke was suffering to the full as severely as they were. "So you have found your feet again," the captain said, when they appeared on deck. "You will be all right now." "We feel much better," Harry said, "now that the storm is over." "Storm! What storm? The weather has been splendid. We cannot wish for anything better. It has been just as you see it now--a bright sun, and just enough wind for her to carry whole sail." The lads both looked astonished. "Then why should we roll and toss about so much?" Harry asked. "Roll and toss! Nonsense, lad! There has been a little movement, of course, as there always must be when there is a brisk wind; but as for rolling and tossing, you must wait till you see a storm, then you will begin to have an idea of what the sea is." The boys both felt rather crestfallen, for they had flattered themselves that their sufferings were caused by something quite out of the ordinary way, and it was mortifying to know that the weather had been really fine, and there had been nothing even approaching a storm. The rest of the voyage was a pleasant one. They found they had regained their appetites, and were able to enjoy their meals; still they were not sorry when they saw the coast of Sweden, and, a few hours later, entered the port of Gottenburg, where Sir Marmaduke, for the first time, came on deck--looking a mere shadow of his former jovial self. "Well, lads," he said, "I was glad to hear that you got through this business quicker than I did. Here we are in Sweden, and here I, at least, am likely to stay, unless I can pass by land through Holland, France, and across from Calais, for never again will I venture upon a long voyage. I have been feeling very ungrateful, for, over and over again, I wished that you had not rescued me, as death on Tower Hill would have been nothing to the agonies that I have been enduring!" As soon as the vessel was warped alongside the quay, they landed, and put up at an hotel, Sir Marmaduke insisting that the ground was as bad as the sea, as it kept on rising and falling beneath his feet. Mr. Jervoise agreed to return on board the following day, to fetch the luggage, which would by that time have been got up from the hold. At the hotel, they met several persons able to speak English, and from them learnt how matters had been going on since they had last heard. The town and fortress of Tonningen had fallen, after a vigorous defence; it had been bombarded for eight days, and had repulsed one assault, but had been captured at the second attack. England and Holland had agreed to furnish fleets, and an army of twelve thousand Swedes were in readiness to march, at once, while other armies were being formed. The king had, the week before, reviewed the army gathered at Malmoe; and had, on the previous day, arrived at Gottenburg, accompanied by the Duke of Holstein. Mr. Jervoise went, the same afternoon, to find out some of his friends who resided at Gottenburg. He was fortunate enough to find one of them, who was able to inform him that his wife's cousin was now a major, in one of the newly-raised regiments stationed at Gottenburg. He found him without difficulty. Major Jamieson was delighted at the coming of his former friend. "You are the last person I expected to see here, Jervoise. It is true that, when we met last, you said that if matters went wrong in England you should come out here, instead of taking refuge in France; but, as everything is quiet, I had little hope of seeing you again, until I paid another visit to Scotland, of which at present there is but little prospect. Have you grown tired of doing nothing, and is it a desire to see something of a stirring life that has brought you over here?" Mr. Jervoise related, shortly, the events by which he had been driven into exile, and expressed his desire to serve in the army of Sweden, and that his son and young Carstairs should also enter the army. "They are but sixteen yet," he said, "but are stout, active fellows, and could hold their own in a day's march or in a stout fight with many men. Of course, if I could obtain commissions for them, all the better, but if not they are ready to enlist in the ranks. Roughing it will do them no harm." "Their age is no drawback," Major Jamieson said. "There are many no older, both in the ranks and as officers. Men in Sweden of all ages and of all ranks are joining, for this unprovoked attack, on the part of Poland, has raised the national spirit to boiling heat. The chief difficulty is their and your ignorance of the language. Were it not for that, I could obtain, from the minister of war, commissions for you at once." He sat thinking for some minutes, in silence. "I think I see how it can be managed, Jervoise. I have some twenty or thirty Scotchmen in my regiment, and I know a colonel who has as many in his, and these I could manage to get, in exchange for an equal number of my Swedes. Ships are coming daily from Scotland, and most of them bring young fellows who have come out to join the army. "You know how the Scots fought, under Gustavus Adolphus, and there is scarce a glen in Scotland where there are not traditions of fathers, or grandfathers, who fought in Hepburn's Green Brigade. Therefore, it is natural that, seeing there is no chance of military service at home, there should be many young fellows coming out to join. "I can go across this evening to the minister of war, who is a personal friend of mine, and get him to give you permission to raise a company of Scotchmen for service. I shall, of course, point out to him that you will enlist them here. I shall show him the advantage of these men being gathered together, as their ignorance of the language makes them, for some time, useless as soldiers if enrolled in a Swedish regiment. I shall mention that I have twenty in my own corps, who are at present positively useless, and in fact a source of great trouble, owing to their understanding nothing that is said to them, and shall propose that they be at once handed over to you. As to the exchange, we can manage that quietly between ourselves. You would have no difficulty with fresh-landed men, as these will naturally be delighted at joining a company of their own countrymen." "Thank you very heartily, Jamieson. This altogether exceeds my hopes, but I fear that I know nothing of drilling them." "Two of my men are sergeants, and, having been in the army for some years, speak Swedish well. They will do the drilling at first. The manoeuvres are not complicated, and, for a pound or two, they will be glad to teach you all the orders necessary. I don't know how you are situated as to money, but I can assure you my purse is at your service." "Thank you; I am, in that respect, excellently well provided, as is my friend Sir Marmaduke. We have both made provision for unexpected contingencies." "Then, if you will call tomorrow after breakfast, I shall probably have your commission ready. As a matter of course, you will have the appointment of your own officers, and will only have to send in their names. Each company is from a hundred and forty to a hundred and fifty strong, and has a captain, two lieutenants, and two ensigns." Mr. Jervoise's news was, on his return to the inn, received with delight by the two lads; and Sir Marmaduke said: "I wish I could shake off twenty of my years, Jervoise, and join also. Well, well, I daresay I shall get on comfortably enough. I know there are a good many English and Scotch Jacobites settled in the town or neighbourhood, and I shall not be long before I meet someone I know. "As the matter seems settled, I should advise you lads to go down, the first thing in the morning, to the wharves. There is no saying when ships may come in. Moreover, it is likely enough that you may light upon young fellows who have landed within the last few weeks, and who have been kept so far, by their ignorance of the language, from enlisting." "That is a very good idea," Mr. Jervoise said. "They will be delighted to hear a friendly voice, and be only too glad to enlist in a Scottish company. You can say that each man will have a free outfit given him." Accordingly, the next morning early, the two lads went down to the wharf. Presently they saw three young fellows, who were evidently Scotch by their dress and caps, talking together. They strolled up near enough to catch what they were saying. "It is hard," one said, "that, now we are here, we can make no one understand us, and it seems to me we had far better have stayed at home." "We shall find some one who speaks our language presently, Jock," another said more cheerfully. "The old man, where we lodged last night, said in his broken tongue, that we had but to go over to Malmoe, or some such place as that, where there is a big camp, and walk up to an officer and say we wish to enlist." "Oh, that is all very well," the other grumbled; "but, if he did not understand us, we should be no better off than before." "Are you wanting to enlist?" Harry said, going up to them. The men gave an exclamation of pleasure, at being addressed in their own tongue. "That we do, sir. If you can put us in the way, we shall be grateful." "That I can do easily," Harry said. "My father is raising a company of Scotch and Englishmen, for the regiment commanded by Colonel Jamieson. This will be far better than joining a Swedish company, where no one will understand your language, and you will not be able to make out the orders given. My father will give each man who joins a free outfit." "That is the very thing for us, sir. We expected to find Scotch regiments here, as there were in the old times, and we had hoped to join them; but whether it is a company or regiment, it makes but little difference, so that we are with those who speak our tongue." "Very well, then. If you come to the Lion Inn, at nine o'clock, you will see my father there. If you know of any others in the same mind as yourselves, and willing to join, bring them with you." "There are ten or twelve others who came over in the ship with us, two days since, and I have no doubt they will be fine and glad to join." "Well, see if you can hunt them up, and bring them with you." On returning to the inn, they found that Mr. Jervoise had already received his commission as captain, and, by ten o'clock, fifteen young Scotchmen had been sworn in. All of them had brought broadswords and dirks, and Captain Jervoise at once set to work buying, at various shops, iron head pieces, muskets, and other accoutrements. During the next three days ten other English and Scotchmen had joined, and then a ship came in, from which they gathered another four-and-twenty recruits. Arms had already been purchased for them, and, on the following day, Captain Jervoise marched off to Malmoe with his forty-nine recruits. Harry accompanied them, Charlie being left behind, with his father, to gather another fifty men as the ships arrived. A week later this number was obtained, and Charlie started with them for the camp, Sir Marmaduke accompanying them on horseback, in order to aid Charlie in maintaining order among his recruits. He had already fixed upon a small house, just outside the town, and, having met two or three old friends, who had been obliged to leave England at William's accession, he already began to feel at home. "Don't you fidget about me, Charlie," he said. "Ferrers tells me that there are at least a score of Jacobites here, and that they form quite a society among themselves. Living is very cheap, and he will introduce me to a man of business, who will see that my money is well invested." Chapter 5: Narva. For the next fortnight, drilling went on from morning till night, the officers receiving instructions privately from the sergeants, and further learning the words of command by standing by while the men were being drilled. At the end of that time, both officers and men were sufficiently instructed to carry out the simple movements which were, alone, in use in those days. It was not, however, until two months later that they were called upon to act. The English and Dutch fleets had arrived, and effected a junction with that of Sweden, and the Danish fleet had shut themselves up in the port of Copenhagen, which was closely blockaded. A large army had crossed to Zeeland, and repulsed the Danes, who had endeavoured to prevent their landing, and had then marched up to within sight of the walls of Copenhagen, which they were preparing to besiege; when the King of Denmark, alarmed at this unexpected result of his aggression on Holstein, conceded every point demanded, and peace was signed. The negotiations were carried on in Holland, and the Swedes were extremely angry, when they found that they were baulked of their expected vengeance on their troublesome neighbours. The peace, however, left Charles the Twelfth at liberty to turn his attention to his other foes, and to hurry to the assistance of Riga, which was beleaguered by the Saxons and Poles; and of Narva, against which city the Russians had made several unsuccessful assaults. Without losing an hour, the king crossed to Malmoe. The troops there were ordered to embark, immediately, in the vessels in the harbour. They then sailed to Revel, where the Swedish commander, Welling, had retired from the neighbourhood of Riga, his force being too small to meet the enemy in the open field. No sooner had the troops landed than the king reviewed them, and General Welling was ordered, at once, to march so as to place himself between the enemy and Wesenberg, where a large amount of provisions and stores for the use of the army had been collected. The two lieutenants, in the company of Captain Jervoise, were young Scotchmen of good family, who had three months before come over and obtained commissions, and both had, at the colonel's request, been transferred to his regiment, and promoted to the rank of lieutenants. Captain Jervoise and his four officers messed together, and were a very cheerful party; indeed, their commander, to the surprise both of his son and Charlie, had quite shaken off his quiet and somewhat gloomy manner, and seemed to have become quite another man, in the active and bracing life in which he was now embarked. Cunningham and Forbes were both active young men, full of life and energy, while the boys thoroughly enjoyed roughing it, and the excitement and animation of their daily work. Sometimes they slept in the open air, sometimes on the floor of a cottage. Their meals were rough but plentiful. The king's orders against plundering were very severe, and, even when in Denmark, the country people, having nothing to complain of, had brought in supplies regularly. Here in Linovia they were in Swedish dominions, but there was little to be purchased, for the peasantry had been brought to ruin by the foraging parties of the Russians and Poles. There was some disappointment, that the enemy had fallen back at the approach of Welling's force, but all felt sure that it would not be long before they met them, for the king would assuredly lose no time in advancing against them, as soon as his army could be brought over. They were not, however, to wait for the arrival of the main force, although the cavalry only took part in the first affair. General Welling heard that a force of three thousand Circassians had taken up their quarters in a village, some fifteen miles away, and sent six hundred horse, under Majors Patkul and Tisenbausen, to surprise them. They were, at first, successful and, attacking the Circassians, set fire to the village, and were engaged in slaughtering the defenders, when twenty-one squadrons of Russian cavalry came up and fell upon them, attacking them on all sides, and posting themselves so as to cut off their retreat. The Swedes, however, gathered in a body, and charged the Russians so furiously that they cut a way through their ranks, losing, however, many of their men, while Major Patkul and another officer were made prisoners. The king was at Revel when this engagement took place, and, although but few of the troops had arrived, he was too impatient for action to wait until the coming of the fleet. He therefore marched to Wesenberg, with his bodyguard and a few troops from Revel. He at once despatched a thousand men, to cover the frontier, and issued orders for the rest of the troops to leave the whole of their baggage behind them, to take three days' provision in their haversacks, and to prepare to march the next morning. Major Jamieson came into the cottage, occupied by Captain Jervoise and his officers, late in the evening. They had a blazing fire, for it was now the middle of November, and the nights were very sharp. "Well, Jervoise, what do you think of the orders?" he asked, as he seated himself on a log that had been brought in for the fire. "I have not thought much about them, except that we are going to do a long and quick march somewhere." "And where is that somewhere, do you think?" "That, I have not the slightest idea." "You would not say that it was to Narva?" "I certainly should not, considering that we have but five thousand infantry, and three thousand cavalry, and of these a large number have been so weakened, by fever, as to be unfit for fighting; while at Narva, report says there are eighty thousand Russians, in a strongly intrenched camp." "Well, that is where we are going, Jervoise, nevertheless. At least, that is what the colonel has told me." "He must have been surely jesting, major. We may be going to push forward in that direction, and occupy some strong position until the army comes up, but it would be the height of madness to attack an enemy, in a strong position, and just tenfold our force." "Well, we shall see," Jamieson said coolly. "It is certain that Narva cannot hold out much longer, and I know that the king has set his heart on relieving it; but it does seem somewhat too dangerous an enterprise to attack the Russians. At any rate, that is the direction in which we are going, tomorrow. It is a good seventy miles distant, and, as they say that the whole country has been devastated, and the villagers have all fled, it is evident that when the three days' bread and meat we carry are exhausted we shall have to get some food, out of the Russian camp, if nowhere else." Captain Jervoise laughed, as did the others. "We can live for a short time on the horses, Jamieson, if we are hard pushed for it, though most of them are little beyond skin and bone." "That is true. The cavalry are certainly scarcely fit for service. Welling's troops have had a very hard time of it, and we may thank our stars, though we did not think so at the time, that we were kept nearly three months at Malmoe, instead of being here with Welling." "But do you seriously think, major, that the king means to attack the Russians?" Cunningham asked. "My own idea is that he does, Cunningham. I cannot see what else there is for us to do. At any rate, if he does, you may be sure that we shall make a tough fight for it. The cavalry showed, the other day, that they can stand up against many times their number of the Russians, and if they can do it, I fancy we can. There is one thing, the very audacity of such an attempt is in its favour." "Well, we will all do our best, you may be sure; but since Thermopylae, I doubt if men have fought against longer odds." The next morning the men fell in. Captain Jervoise, who, like all of his rank, was mounted, took his place at the head of his company, and the little army marched away from Wesenberg. It was a dreary march to Purts, but the sight of the ruined villages, and devastated fields, aroused a feeling of indignation and fury among the troops, and a fierce longing to attack men who had so ruthlessly spread ruin through a fertile country. Orders were issued, that evening, that the men were to husband their provisions as much as possible, and the order was more strictly obeyed than such orders usually are, for the men saw, for themselves, that there was no possibility of obtaining fresh supplies in the wasted country, and were well aware that there existed no train of waggons and horses capable of bringing up stores from Wesenberg. There were a few aged men and women remaining at Purts, and from these they learned that their next day's march would take them to a very difficult pass, which was held by six hundred of the Russian cavalry, together with a force of infantry and some guns. It was the intention of the king to encamp that evening near the pass, and, when within three or four miles of it, General Meidel, who had with him the quartermaster of the army, and four hundred cavalry, rode on ahead to choose a site for the camp. He presently saw a large body of Russian foragers in front of him, and sent back to the king for permission to attack them. Charles ordered the army to continue its march, and, hurrying forward with some of his officers, joined General Meidel and charged the foragers, killing many, taking others prisoners, and putting the rest to flight. He followed close upon their heels, and rode right up to the mouth of the pass, in spite of the heavy fire of artillery and musketry opened by the Russians. He at once determined to take advantage of the alarm produced by the defeat of the Russian cavalry, and, although darkness was now drawing on, brought up some of his infantry and artillery, and attacked with such vigour that the Russians fled, after offering a very feeble resistance. A battalion of foot were ordered to occupy the pass, while the rest of the army piled their arms, and lay down where they stood. In the morning, they were astonished at the strength of the position that had been gained so easily. The defile was deep and narrow, a rapid stream ran through it, and the ground was soft and marshy. A few determined men should have been able to bar the advance of an army. The troops were in high spirits at the result of this, their first action against the enemy, and were the more pleased that they found, in the Russian camp, sufficient provisions to replace those they had used. After a hearty meal, they again advanced at a brisk march. The defile was captured on the evening of the 17th November, and, early in the morning of the 20th, the army reached Lagena, a league and a half from Narva, and, ordering the troops to follow, the king rode forward to reconnoitre the Russian position. The troops were weary with their long marches, and many of those who had, but recently, recovered from fever were scarce able to drag themselves along, while great numbers were unfit to take part in a battle, until after two or three days of rest. The officers of the Malmoe Regiment, for it had taken its name from the camp where it had been formed, were gathered in a group at its head, discussing the situation. Most of the officers were of opinion that, to attack at once, with men and horses worn out with fatigue, was to ensure destruction; but there were others who thought that, in face of so great an army as that gathered in front of them, the only hope was in an immediate attack. Major Jamieson was one of these. "The king is right," he said. "If the Russian army have time to form, and to advance against us in order of battle, we must be annihilated. At present, their camp is an extensive one, for, as I hear, it extends in a great semi-circle four or five miles long, with the ends resting on the river. They cannot believe that we intend to attack them, and, if we go straight at them, we may possibly gain a footing in their intrenchments, before the whole army can gather to aid those at the point of attack. It will be almost a surprise, and I think the king is right to attempt it, for it is only by a quick and sudden stroke that we can gain a success over so great an army." The halt was but a short one and, as soon as the regiments had arrived at the positions assigned to them, they advanced. As soon as they appeared, on a rise of ground facing the intrenchments, the enemy opened fire. The king had already reconnoitred a portion of their position, exposing himself recklessly to their shot, and, as soon as the troops came up, he issued orders for them to prepare to attack in two columns. First, however, several of the regiments were ordered to fall out, and to cut down bushes and make fascines, to enable the troops to cross the ditches. The intrenchment was a formidable one, being provided with parapets armed with chevaux de frise, and flanked by strong exterior works, while several batteries had been placed to sweep the ground across which an enemy must advance. The right column, under General Welling, was to march to a point nearly in the centre of the great semicircle; while the left, under General Rhenschild, was to assault a point about halfway between the centre and the river, where one of the largest and most powerful of the enemy's batteries was placed. The king himself was with this wing, with his bodyguard, and he hoped that here he might meet the czar commanding in person. The Russian emperor had, however, left the camp that morning, to fetch up forty thousand men who were advancing from Plescow, and the command of the army had been assumed by the Duke of Croy. The Swedish left wing had with it a battery of twenty-one guns, while sixteen guns covered the attack on the right. It was two o'clock in the afternoon when two guns gave the signal for the advance. Hitherto the weather had been fine, but it had become gradually overcast, and, just as the signal was given, a tremendous storm of snow and hail began. It set right in the face of the Russians, and concealed from them the movement of the Swedes, for which, indeed, they were wholly unprepared, believing that the small force they saw was but the advance guard of a great Swedish army, and that no attack need be expected until the main body arrived. The consequence was, the Swedes were almost at the edge of the ditch before they were perceived, and both columns attacked with such vigour and courage that, in a quarter of an hour, they had gained a footing in the intrenchments, and had so filled up the ditch with the fascines that the cavalry were able to follow them. The Russians were so astounded at this sudden attack that they lost heart altogether. The Swedish left, as soon as it entered the intrenchments, swept along them, the Russians abandoning their guns and batteries, and making for their bridge across the river. Unfortunately for them, their huts were built close behind the works, and in rear was another intrenchment, designed to repel assaults from the town; and the terrified crowd, unable to make their way rapidly along, over ground encumbered by their huts, crossed the interior intrenchments, thinking to make their way faster through the fields to the bridge. The Swedish king, however, placed himself at the head of his bodyguard, and, followed by the rest of his horse, charged right upon them, cutting down great numbers, and driving the rest before them towards the river, while the infantry kept up a heavy fire upon the fugitives in the intrenchments. The panic had spread quickly, and the Russian troops nearest to the bridge were already pouring over, when the mass of the fugitives arrived. These pressed upon the bridge in such numbers that it speedily gave way, cutting off the retreat of their comrades behind. Ignorant of the result, the terrified crowd pushed on, pressing those in front of them into the river, and the number of drowned was no less than that of those who fell beneath the bullets, pikes, and sabres of the Swedes. In their despair the Russians, rallied by some of their generals, now attempted to defend themselves, and, by occupying some houses and barracks, and barricading the passages between these with overturned waggons, they fought bravely, and repulsed, for some time, every effort of the Swedes. Darkness was now falling, and the king hastened to the spot where the battle was fiercely raging. As he ran towards it, he fell into a morass, from which he was rescued with some difficulty, leaving his sword and one boot behind him. However, he at once pushed on, and placed himself at the head of the infantry engaged in the assault. But even his presence and example did not avail. The Russians maintained their position with desperate courage, and, when it became quite dark, the assault ceased. The right column had met with equal success. It had penetrated the intrenchments, defeated all the Russians who opposed it, and now moved to assist the left wing. The king, however, seeing that the Russian defences could not be carried, by a direct assault, without great loss, gathered the army in the space between the town and the Russian intrenchments, and placed them in a position to repel an attack, should the Russians take the offensive; giving orders that, at daylight, the hill on which the enemy had their principal battery should be assaulted. The guns here commanded all the intrenchments, and the capture of that position would render it impossible for the Russians to continue their defence, or for the now separated wings of the army to combine. The officers in command of the Russian right wing, finding themselves unable to cross the river on their broken bridge, and surrounded by the Swedes, sent in to surrender in the course of the evening, and two battalions of the Swedish Guards took possession of the post that had been so gallantly defended. The king granted them permission to retire with their arms, the colours and standards being given up, and the superior officers being retained as prisoners of war. The broken bridge was repaired and, early the next morning, the Russian troops passed over. Their left wing was, after the surrender of their right, in a hopeless position, for on that side no bridge had been thrown over the river, and their retreat was wholly cut off. On learning, before daybreak, that the right wing had surrendered, they too sent in to ask for terms. The king granted them freedom to return to their country, but without their standards or arms. They filed off before him, officers and soldiers bareheaded, and passed over the bridge, their numbers being so great that all had not crossed until next morning. The Russians lost over 18,000 men killed or drowned, a hundred and forty-five cannon, and twenty-eight mortars, all of which were new, besides vast quantities of military stores and provisions. A hundred and fifty-one colours, and twenty standards, and the greater proportion of their muskets, together with the military chest, the Duke of Croy, their commander-in-chief, and the whole of their generals, colonels, majors, and captains, fell into the hands of the Swedes, as prisoners of war. The total loss in killed and wounded of the Swedes was under two thousand, the chief loss being due to the desperate resistance of the Russians, after the battle was irretrievably lost. It may be doubted whether so complete and surprising a victory, between armies so disproportionate in force, was ever before gained. The king had exposed himself, throughout the day, most recklessly, and was everywhere in the thick of the Russian bullets, and yet he escaped without so much as a scratch. The Malmoe Regiment had been with the left wing, but suffered comparatively little loss, as they were one of the last to enter the intrenchments, and it was only when darkness was closing in that they were called up to take a part in the attack on the position held by the Russians. "Never was the saying, that fortune favours the brave, more signally verified, Jervoise," Major Jamieson said, as he sat down to a rough breakfast with the officers of the Scottish company, on the morning after the Russian surrender. "That's true enough, but Russians are brave, too, as they showed at the end of the day. I fancy you have a scotch proverb to the effect that 'fou folk come to no harm.' I think that is more applicable in the present case." The major laughed. "The fou folk relates rather to drunkenness than madness, Jervoise. But, of course, it would do for both. I own that the whole enterprise did seem, to me, to be absolute madness, but the result has justified it. That sudden snowstorm was the real cause of our victory, and, had it not been for that, I still think that we could not have succeeded. The Russian cannon certainly continued to fire, but it was wholly at random, and they were taken by surprise when we suddenly appeared at the side of the ditch, while we were across before they could gather any force sufficient to defend it. "After that, panic did the rest. The commander in chief fell early into our hands. There was no one to give orders, no one to rally them, and I expect the Russian soldiers gave us credit for having brought on that storm, to cover our assault, by the aid of malign spirits. "Well, lads, and how did you feel when the shots were whistling about?" "I did not like it at all, major," Charlie said. "It seemed such a strange thing, marching along in the thick of that snowstorm, hearing the rush of cannonballs overhead, and the boom of guns, and yet be unable to see anything but the rear files of the company in front." "It was an uncanny feeling, Charlie. I felt it myself, and was very grateful that we were hidden from the enemy, who, of course, were blazing away in the direction in which they had last seen us. We only lost three killed and twelve wounded, altogether, and I think those were, for the most part, hit by random shots. "Well, if this is the way the king means to carry on war, we shall have enough of it before we are done." The sick and wounded were sent into the town, the first thing, but it was not until the Russians had all crossed the river that the king, himself, rode triumphantly into the place, surrounded by his staff, amid the wild enthusiasm of the inhabitants, whom his victory had saved from ruin and massacre. The town, although strongly fortified, was not a large one, and its houses were so dilapidated, from the effects of the Russian bombardment, that but few of the troops could be accommodated there. The rest were quartered in the Russian huts. On the 26th, a solemn service of thanksgiving for the victory was celebrated, with a salute from all the cannon of the town and camp, and by salvos of musketry from the troops. The question of provisions was the most important now. It was true that large quantities had been captured in the Russian camp, but, beyond a magazine of corn, abandoned by the fugitives at Tama and brought in, there was no prospect of replenishing the store when exhausted, for the whole country, for a great distance round, had been completely devastated by the Russians. These had not retreated far, having been rallied by the czar at Plescow, and quartered in the towns of the frontier of Livonia, whence they made incursions into such districts as had not been previously wasted. "This is dull work," Archie Cunningham said, one day. "The sooner we are busy again, the better. There is nothing to do, and very little to eat. The cold is bitter, and fuel scarce. One wants something to warm one's blood." "You are not likely to have anything of that kind, for some months to come," Major Jamieson replied dryly. "You don't suppose we are going to have a battle of Narva once a week, do you? No doubt there will be a few skirmishes, and outpost encounters, but beyond that there will be little doing until next spring. You can make up your mind, for at least five months, of the worst side of a soldier's life--dull quarters, and probably bad ones, scanty food, cold, and disease." "Not a very bright lookout, major," Forbes laughed. "I hope it won't be as bad as that." "Then I advise you to give up hoping, and to make up your mind to realities, Forbes. There is a good deal of illness in the camp now, and there will be more and more as the time goes on. There is nothing like inaction to tell upon the health of troops. However, we certainly shall not stay here. It would be impossible to victual the army, and I expect that, before long, we shall march away and take up quarters for the winter. "As to operations on a great scale, they are out of the question. After the thrashing they have had, the Russians will be months before they are in a condition to take the offensive again; while we are equally unable to move because, in the first place, we are not strong enough to do so, and in the second we have no baggage train to carry provisions with us, and no provisions to carry if we had it." On the 13th of December, the king quitted Narva with the army, and on the 19th arrived at Lais, an old castle six miles from Derpt, and here established his headquarters. A few of the troops were stationed in villages, but the greater part in rough huts in the neighbourhood, and along the frontier. It was not long before Major Jamieson's predictions were verified. A low fever, occasioned by the fatiguing marches and the hardships they had endured, added to the misery from the cold and wet that penetrated the wretched huts, spread rapidly through the army. Many died, and great numbers were absolutely prostrated. The king was indefatigable in his efforts to keep up the spirits of the troops. He constantly rode about from camp to camp, entering the huts, chatting cheerfully with the soldiers, and encouraging them by kind words and assurances that, when the spring came, they would soon gain strength again. At Narva the four young officers had all purchased horses. Most of the Swedish officers were mounted; and the king encouraged this, as, on occasion, he could thereby collect at once a body of mounted men ready for any enterprise; but their own colonel preferred that, on the march, the lieutenants and ensigns should be on foot with their men, in order to set them an example of cheerful endurance. Those who wished it, however, were permitted to have horses, which were, on such occasions, led in the rear of the regiment. Captain Jervoise had approved of the purchase of the horses, which were got very cheaply, as great numbers had been captured. "If we can get over the difficulty of the forage," he said, "you will find them very useful for preserving your health during the winter. A ride will set your blood in motion, and, wherever we are quartered, there are sure to be camps within riding distance. The king approves of officers taking part in dashing expeditions, so you may be able to take a share in affairs that will break the monotony of camp life." They found great benefit from being able to ride about. Forage was indeed very scarce. They had no means of spending their pay on luxuries of any kind, their only outlay being in the purchase of black bread, and an occasional load of forage from the peasants. Their regiment was with the force under the command of Colonel Schlippenbach, which was not very far from Marienburg, a place open to the incursions of the Russians. Baron Spens was at Signiz, and Colonel Alvedyhl at Rounenberg, and to both these places they occasionally paid a visit. In order to keep the company in health, Captain Jervoise encouraged the men to get up games, in which the four young officers took part. Sometimes it was a snowball match in the open; at other times a snow fort was built, garrisoned, and attacked. Occasionally there were matches at hockey, while putting the stone, throwing the caber, running and wrestling matches, were all tried in turn; and the company suffered comparatively little from the illness which rendered so large a proportion of the Swedish army inefficient. Colonel Schlippenbach was an energetic officer, and had, several times, ridden past when the men were engaged in these exercises. He expressed to Captain Jervoise his approval of the manner in which he kept his men in strength and vigour. "I shall not forget it," he said, one day, "and if there is service to be done, I see that I can depend upon your company to do it." In January, he took a party of horse, and reconnoitred along the River Aa, to observe the motions of the Saxons on the other side; and, hearing that a party of them had entered Marienburg, he determined to take possession of that place, as, were they to fortify it, they would be able greatly to harass the Swedes. Sending word to the king of his intention, and asking for an approval of his plan of fortifying the town, he took three companies of infantry and four hundred horse, made a rapid march to Marienburg, and occupied it without opposition. He had not forgotten his promise, and the company of Captain Jervoise was one of those selected for the work. Its officers were delighted at the prospect of a change, and, when the party started, Captain Jervoise was proud of the show made by his men, whose active and vigorous condition contrasted strongly with the debility and feebleness evident, so generally, among the Swedish soldiers. As soon as Marienburg was entered, the men were set to work, to raise and strengthen the rampart and to erect bastions; and they were aided, a few days later, by a reinforcement of two hundred infantry, sent by the king, with some cannon, from the garrison of Derpt. As the place was surrounded by a morass, it was, ere long, put into a position to offer a formidable defence against any force that the Russians or Saxons might bring against it. The Swedes engaged on the work gained strength rapidly, and, by the time the fortifications were finished, they had completely shaken off the effects of the fever. Chapter 6: A Prisoner. A fortnight after the fortifications of Marienburg were completed, Colonel Schlippenbach sent off Lieutenant Colonel Brandt, with four hundred horse, to capture a magazine at Seffwegen, to which the Saxons had forced the inhabitants of the country round to bring in their corn, intending later to convey it to the headquarters of their army. The expedition was completely successful. The Saxon guard were overpowered, and a thousand tons of corn were brought, in triumph, into Marienburg. Some of it was sent on to the army, abundance being retained for the use of the town and garrison, in case of siege. It was now resolved to surprise and burn Pitschur, a town on the frontier from which the enemy constantly made incursions. It was held by a strong body of Russians. Baron Spens was in command of the expedition. He had with him both the regiments of Horse Guards. Much excitement was caused, in Marienburg, by the issue of an order that the cavalry, and a portion of the infantry, were to be ready to march at daylight; and by the arrival of a large number of peasants, brought in by small parties of the cavalry. Many were the surmises as to the operation to be undertaken, its object being kept a strict secret. Captain Jervoise's company was one of those in orders, and paraded at daybreak, and, after a march of some distance, the force joined that of Baron Spens. The troops were halted in a wood, and ordered to light fires to cook food, and to prepare for a halt of some hours. Great fires were soon blazing and, after eating their meal, most of the troops wrapped themselves in the blankets that they carried, in addition to their greatcoats, and lay down by the fires. They slept until midnight, and were then called to arms again. They marched all night, and at daybreak the next morning, the 13th of February, were near Pitschur, and at once attacked the Russian camp outside the town. Taken completely by surprise, the Russians fought feebly, and more than five hundred were killed before they entered the town, hotly pursued by the Swedes. Shutting themselves up in the houses, and barricading the doors and windows, they defended themselves desperately, refusing all offers of surrender. The Livonian peasants were, however, at work, and set fire to the town in many places. The flames spread rapidly. Great stores of hides and leather, and a huge magazine filled with hemp, added to the fury of the conflagration, and the whole town was burned to the ground; numbers of the Russians preferring death by fire, in the houses, to coming out and surrendering themselves. Many of the fugitives had succeeded in reaching a strong position on the hill commanding the town. This consisted of a convent, surrounded by strong walls mounted with cannon, which played upon the town while the fight there was going on. As Baron Spens had no guns with him, he was unable to follow up his advantage by taking this position, and he therefore gave orders to the force to retire, the peasants being loaded with booty that they had gathered before the fire spread. The loss of the Swedes was thirty killed and sixty wounded, this being a small amount of loss compared with what they had inflicted upon the enemy. "I call that a horrible business, Captain Jervoise," Charlie said, when the troops had returned to Marienburg. "There was no real fighting in it." "It was a surprise, Charlie. But they fought desperately after they gained the town." "Yes, but we did nothing there beyond firing away at the windows. Of course, I had my sword in my hand; but it might as well have been in its sheath, for I never struck a blow, and I think it was the same with most of our men. One could not cut down those poor wretches, who were scarce awake enough to use their arms. I was glad you held our company in rear of the others." "Yes; I asked the colonel before attacking to put us in reserve, in case the enemy should rally. I did it on purpose, for I knew that our men, not having, like the Swedes, any personal animosity against the Russians, would not like the work. If it had come to storming the convent, I would have volunteered to lead the assault. At any rate, I am glad that, although a few of the men are wounded, no lives are lost in our company." Harry cordially agreed with his friend. "I like an expedition, Charlie, if there is fighting to be done; but I don't want to have anything more to do with surprises. However, the cavalry had a good deal more to do with it than we had; but, as you say, it was a ghastly business. The only comfort is they began it, and have been robbing the peasants and destroying their homes for months." Many small expeditions were sent out with equally favourable results; but Captain Jervoise's company took no part in these excursions. Charles the Twelfth was passionately fond of hunting and, in spite of his many occupations, found time occasionally to spend a day or two in the chase. A few days after the attack upon Pitschur, he came to Marienburg to learn all particulars of the Russian position from Colonel Schlippenbach, as he intended, in the spring, to attack the triangle formed by three fortresses, in order to drive the Russians farther back from the frontier. "I hear that there are many wolves and bears in the forest, five leagues to the north. I want a party of about fifty footmen to drive the game, and as many horse, in case we come across one of the parties of Russians. I want some hearty, active men for the march. I will send the foot on this afternoon, and ride with the horse so as to get there by daybreak. Which is your best company of infantry?" "My best company is one composed chiefly of Scotchmen, though there are some English among them. It belongs to the Malmoe Regiment, and is commanded by Captain Jervoise, an Englishman. I do not say that they are braver than our Swedes; they have not been tested in any desperate service; but they are healthier and more hardy, for their officers, since the battle of Narva, have kept them engaged in sports of all kinds--mimic battles, foot races, and other friendly contests. I have marked them at it several times, and wondered sometimes at the rough play. But it has had its effect. While the rest of Suborn's regiment suffered as much from fever as the other troops, scarce a man in this company was sick, and they have, all the winter, been fit for arduous service at any moment." "That is good indeed, and I will remember it, and will see that, another winter, similar games are carried on throughout the army. Let the company be paraded at once. I will, myself, inspect them." The company's call was sounded, and, surprised at a summons just as they were cooking their dinners, the troops fell in, in front of their quarters, and the officers took their places in front of them, and waited for orders. "I wonder what is up now," Nigel Forbes said to Harry. "You have not heard anything, from your father, of our being wanted, have you?" "No; he was just as much surprised as I was, when a sergeant ran up with Schlippenbach's order that the company were to fall in." Five minutes after they had formed up, three officers were seen approaching on foot. "It is the colonel himself," Forbes muttered, as Captain Jervoise gave the word to the men to stand to attention. A minute later, Captain Jervoise gave the order for the salute, and Harry saw that the tall young officer, walking with the colonel, was the king. Without speaking a word, Charles walked up and down the line, narrowly inspecting the men, then he returned to the front. "A fine set of fellows, Schlippenbach. I wish that, like my grandfather, I had some fifteen thousand of such troops under my orders. Present the captain to me." The officers were called up, and Captain Jervoise was presented. "Your company does you great credit, Captain Jervoise," the king said. "I would that all my troops looked in as good health and condition. Colonel Schlippenbach tells me that you have kept your men in good health, all through the winter, by means of sports and games. It is a good plan. I will try to get all my officers to adopt it another winter. Do the men join in them willingly?" Captain Jervoise and his officers had all, during the nine months that had passed since they landed in Sweden, done their best to acquire the language, and could now speak and understand it thoroughly. "They like it, your majesty. Our people are fond of games of this kind. My four officers take part in them with the men." The king nodded. "That is as it should be. It must create a good feeling on both sides. Present your officers to me, Captain Jervoise." This was done, and the king spoke a few words to each. Charlie had often seen the king at a distance, but never before so close as to be able to notice his face particularly. He was a tall young fellow, thin and bony. His face was long, and his forehead singularly high and somewhat projecting. This was the most noticeable feature of his face. His eyes were quick and keen, his face clean-shaven, and, had it not been for the forehead and eyes, would have attracted no attention. His movements were quick and energetic, and, after speaking to the officers, he strode a step or two forward and, raising his voice, said: "I am pleased with you, men. Your appearance does credit to yourselves and your officers. Scottish troops did grand service under my grandfather, Gustavus Adolphus, and I would that I had twenty battalions of such soldiers with me. I am going hunting tomorrow, and I asked Colonel Schlippenbach for half a company of men who could stand cold and fatigue. He told me that I could not do better than take them from among this company, and I see that he could not have made a better choice. But I will not separate you, and will therefore take you all. You will march in an hour, and I will see that there is a good supper ready for you, at the end of your journey." Colonel Schlippenbach gave Captain Jervoise directions as to the road they were to follow, and the village, at the edge of the forest, where they were to halt for the night. He then walked away with the king. Highly pleased with the praise Charles had given them, the company fell out. "Get your dinners as soon as you can, men," Captain Jervoise said. "The king gave us an hour. We must be in readiness to march by that time." On arriving at the village, which consisted of a few small houses only, they found two waggons awaiting them, one with tents and the other with a plentiful supply of provisions, and a barrel of wine. The tents were erected, and then the men went into the forest, and soon returned with large quantities of wood, and great fires were speedily lighted. Meat was cut up and roasted over them, and, regarding the expedition as a holiday, the men sat down to their supper in high spirits. After it was eaten there were songs round the fires, and, at nine o'clock, all turned into their tents, as it was known that the king would arrive at daylight. Sentries were posted, for there was never any saying when marauding parties of Russians, who were constantly on the move, might come along. Half an hour before daybreak, the men were aroused. Tents were struck and packed in the waggon, and the men then fell in, and remained until the king, with three or four of his officers and fifty cavalry, rode up. Fresh wood had been thrown on the fires, and some of the men told off as cooks. "That looks cheerful for hungry men," the king said, as he leaped from his horse. "I did not know whether your majesty would wish to breakfast at once," Captain Jervoise said; "but I thought it well to be prepared." "We will breakfast by all means. We are all sharp set already. Have your own men had food yet?" "No, sir. I thought perhaps they would carry it with them." "No, no. Let them all have a hearty meal before they move, then they can hold on as long as may be necessary." The company fell out again, and, in a quarter of an hour, they and the troopers breakfasted. A joint of meat was placed, for the use of the king and the officers who had come with him, and Captain Jervoise and those with him prepared to take their meal a short distance away, but Charles said: "Bring that joint here, Captain Jervoise, and we will all take breakfast together. We are all hunters and comrades." In a short time, they were all seated round a fire, with their meat on wooden platters on their knees, and with mugs of wine beside them; Captain Jervoise, by the king's orders, taking his seat beside him. During the meal, he asked him many questions as to his reasons for leaving England, and taking service with him. "So you have meddled in politics, eh?" the king laughed, when he heard a brief account of Captain Jervoise's reason for leaving home. "Your quarrels, in England and Scotland, have added many a thousand good soldiers to the armies of France and Sweden, and, I may say, of every country in Europe. I believe there are some of your compatriots, or at any rate Scotchmen, in the czar's camp. I suppose that, at William's death, these troubles will cease." "I do not know, sir. Anne was James' favourite daughter, and it may be she will resign in favour of her brother, the lawful king. If she does so, there is an end of trouble; but, should she mount the throne, she would be a usurper, as Mary was up to her death in '94. As Anne has been on good terms with William, since her sister's death, I fear she will act as unnatural a part as Mary did, and, in that case, assuredly we shall not recognize her as our queen." "You have heard the news, I suppose, of the action of the parliament last month?" "No, sir, we have heard nothing for some weeks of what is doing in England." "They have been making an Act of Settlement of the succession. Anne is to succeed William, and, as she has no children by George of Denmark, the succession is to pass from her to the Elector of Hanover, in right of his wife Sophia, as the rest of the children of the Elector of the Palatinate have abjured Protestantism, and are therefore excluded. How will that meet the views of the English and Scotch Jacobites?" "It is some distance to look forward to, sire. If Anne comes to the throne at William's death, it will, I think, postpone our hopes, for Anne is a Stuart, and is a favourite with the nation, in spite of her undutiful conduct to her father. Still, it will be felt that for Stuart to fight against Stuart, brother against sister, would be contrary to nature. Foreigners are always unpopular, and, as against William, every Jacobite is ready to take up arms. But I think that nothing will be done during Anne's reign. The Elector of Hanover would be as unpopular, among Englishmen in general, as is William of Orange, and, should he come to the throne, there will assuredly ere long be a rising to bring back the Stuarts." Charles shook his head. "I don't want to ruffle your spirit of loyalty to the Stuarts, Captain Jervoise, but they have showed themselves weak monarchs for a great country. They want fibre. William of Orange may be, as you call him, a foreigner and a usurper, but England has greater weight in the councils of Europe, in his hands, than it has had since the death of Elizabeth." This was rather a sore point with Captain Jervoise, who, thorough Jacobite as he was, had smarted under the subservience of England to France during the reigns of the two previous monarchs. "You Englishmen and Scotchmen are fighting people," the king went on, "and should have a military monarch. I do not mean a king like myself, who likes to fight in the front ranks of his soldiers; but one like William, who has certainly lofty aims, and is a statesman, and can join in European combinations." "William thinks and plans more for Holland than for England, sire. He would join a league against France and Spain, not so much for the benefit of England, which has not much to fear from these powers, but of Holland, whose existence now, as of old is threatened by them." "England's interest is similar to that of Holland," the king said. "I began this war, nominally, in the interest of the Duke of Holstein, but really because it was Sweden's interest that Denmark should not become too powerful. "But we must not waste time in talking politics. I see the men have finished their breakfast, and we are here to hunt. I shall keep twenty horse with me; the rest will enter the forest with you. I have arranged for the peasants here to guide you. You will march two miles along by the edge of the forest, and then enter it and make a wide semicircle, leaving men as you go, until you come down to the edge of the forest again, a mile to our left. "As soon as you do so, you will sound a trumpet, and the men will then move forward, shouting so as to drive the game before them. As the peasants tell me there are many wolves and bears in the forest, I hope that you will inclose some of them in your cordon, which will be about five miles from end to end. With the horse you will have a hundred and thirty men, so that there will be a man every sixty or seventy yards. That is too wide a space at first, but, as you close in, the distances will rapidly lessen, and they must make up, by noise, for the scantiness of their numbers. If they find the animals are trying to break through, they can discharge their pieces; but do not let them do so otherwise, as it would frighten the animals too soon, and send them flying out all along the open side of the semicircle." It was more than two hours before the whole of the beaters were in position. Just before they had started, the king had requested Captain Jervoise to remain with him and the officers who had accompanied him, five in number. They had been posted, a hundred yards apart, at the edge of the forest. Charlie was the first officer left behind as the troop moved through the forest, and it seemed to him an endless time before he heard a faint shout, followed by another and another, until, at last, the man stationed next to him repeated the signal. Then they moved forward, each trying to obey the orders to march straight ahead. For some time, nothing was heard save the shouts of the men, and then Charlie made out some distant shots, far in the wood, and guessed that some animals were trying to break through the lines. Then he heard the sound of firing directly in front of him. This continued for some time, occasionally single shots being heard, but more often shots in close succession. Louder and louder grew the shouting, as the men closed in towards a common point, and, in half an hour after the signal had been given, all met. "What sport have you had, father?" Harry asked, as he came up to Captain Jervoise. "We killed seventeen wolves and four bears, with, what is more important, six stags. I do not know whether we are going to have another beat." It soon turned out that this was the king's intention, and the troops marched along the edge of the forest. Charlie was in the front of his company, the king with the cavalry a few hundred yards ahead, when, from a dip of ground on the right, a large body of horsemen suddenly appeared. "Russians!" Captain Jervoise exclaimed, and shouted to the men, who were marching at ease, to close up. The king did not hesitate a moment, but, at the head of his fifty cavalry, charged right down upon the Russians, who were at least five hundred strong. The little body disappeared in the melee, and then seemed to be swallowed up. "Keep together, shoulder to shoulder, men. Double!" and the company set off at a run. When they came close to the mass of horsemen, they poured in a volley, and then rushed forward, hastily fitting the short pikes they carried into their musket barrels; for, as yet, the modern form of bayonets was not used. The Russians fought obstinately, but the infantry pressed their way step by step through them, until they reached the spot where the king, with his little troop of cavalry, were defending themselves desperately from the attacks of the Russians. The arrival of the infantry decided the contest, and the Russians began to draw off, the king hastening the movement by plunging into the midst of them with his horsemen. Charlie was on the flank of the company as it advanced, and, after running through a Russian horseman with the short pike that was carried by officers, he received a tremendous blow on his steel cap, that stretched him insensible on the ground. When he recovered, he felt that he was being carried, and soon awoke to the fact that he was a prisoner. After a long ride, the Russians arrived at Plescow. They had lost some sixty men in the fight. Charlie was the only prisoner taken. He was, on dismounting, too weak to stand, but he was half carried and half dragged to the quarters of the Russian officer in command. The latter addressed him, but, finding that he was not understood, sent for an officer who spoke Swedish. "What were the party you were with doing in the wood?" "We were hunting wolves and bears." "Where did you come from?" "From Marienburg." "How strong were you?" "Fifty horse and a hundred and forty foot," Charlie replied, knowing there could be no harm in stating the truth. "But it was a long way to march, merely to hunt, and your officers must have been mad to come out, with so small a party, to a point where they were likely to meet with us." "It was not too small a party, sir, as they managed to beat off the attack made upon them." The Russian was silent for a moment, then he asked: "Who was the officer in command?" "The officer in command was the King of Sweden," Charlie replied. An exclamation of surprise and anger broke from the Russian general, when the answer was translated to him. "You missed a good chance of distinguishing yourself," he said to the officer in command of the troops. "Here has this mad King of Sweden been actually putting himself in your hands, and you have let him slip through your fingers. It would have got you two steps in rank, and the favour of the czar, had you captured him, and now he will be in a rage, indeed, when he hears that five hundred cavalry could do nothing against a force only a third of their number." "I had no idea that the King of Sweden was there himself," the officer said humbly. "Bah, that is no excuse. There were officers, and you ought to have captured them, instead of allowing yourself to be put to flight by a hundred and fifty men." "We must have killed half the horsemen before the infantry came up." "All the worse, colonel, that you did not complete the business. The infantry would not have been formidable, after they discharged their pieces. However, it is your own affair, and I wash my hands of it. What the czar will say when he hears of it, I know not, but I would not be in your shoes for all my estates." As Charlie learned afterwards, the colonel was degraded from his rank by the angry czar, and ordered to serve as a private in the regiment he commanded. The officer who acted as translator said something in his own tongue to the general, who then, through him, said: "This officer tells me that by your language you are not a Swede." "I am not. I am English, and I am an ensign in the Malmoe Regiment." "All the worse for you," the general said. "The czar has declared that he will exchange no foreign officers who may be taken prisoners." "Very well, sir," Charlie said, fearlessly. "He will be only punishing his own officers. There are plenty of them in the King of Sweden's hands." The general, when this reply was translated to him, angrily ordered Charlie to be taken away, and he was soon lodged in a cell in the castle. His head was still swimming from the effects of the blow that had stricken him down, and, without even trying to think over his position, he threw himself down on the straw pallet, and was soon asleep. It was morning when he woke and, for a short time, he was unable to imagine where he was, but soon recalled what had happened. He had been visited by someone after he had lain down, for a platter of bread and meat stood on the table, and a jug of water. He was also covered with two thick blankets. These had not been there when he lay down, for he had wondered vaguely as to how he should pass the night without some covering. He took a long draught of water, then ate some food. His head throbbed with the pain of the wound. It had been roughly bandaged by his captors, but needed surgical dressing. "I wonder how long I am likely to be, before I am exchanged," he said to himself. "A long time, I am afraid; for there are scores of Russian officers prisoners with us, and I don't think there are half a dozen of ours captured by the Russians. Of course, no exchange can take place until there are a good batch to send over, and, it may be, months may pass before they happen to lay hands on enough Swedish officers to make it worth while to trouble about exchanging them." An hour later the door opened, and an officer entered, followed by a soldier with a large bowl of broth and some bread. "I am a doctor," he said in Swedish. "I came in to see you yesterday evening, but you were sound asleep, and that was a better medicine than any I can give; so I told the man to throw those two barrack rugs over you, and leave your food in case you should wake, which did not seem to me likely. I see, however, that you did wake," and he pointed to the plate. "That was not till this morning, doctor. It is not an hour since I ate it." "This broth will be better for you, and I daresay you can manage another breakfast. Sit down and take it, at once, while it is hot. I am in no hurry." He gave an order in Russian to the soldier, who went out, and returned in a few minutes with a small wooden tub, filled with hot water. By this time Charlie had finished the broth. The doctor then bathed his head for some time in hot water, but was obliged to cut off some of his hair, in order to remove the bandage. As he examined the wound, Charlie was astounded to hear him mutter to himself: "It is a mighty nate clip you have got, my boy; and, if your skull had not been a thick one, it is lying out there on the turf you would be." Charlie burst into a fit of laughter. "So you are English, too," he exclaimed, as he looked up into the surgeon's face. "At laste Irish, my boy," the doctor said, as surprised as Charlie had been. "To think we should have been talking Swedish to each other, instead of our native tongue. And what is your name? And what is it you are doing here, as a Swede, at all?" "My name is Charles Carstairs. I come from Lancashire, just on the borders of Westmoreland. My father is a Jacobite, and so had to leave the country. He went over to Sweden, and I, with some friends of his, got commissions." "Then our cases are pretty much alike," the doctor said. "I had gone through Dublin University, and had just passed as a surgeon, when King James landed. It didn't much matter to me who was king, but I thought it was a fine opportunity to study gunshot wounds, so I joined the royal army, and was at the battle of the Boyne. I had plenty of work with wounds, early in the day, but when, after the Irish had fairly beat the Dutchman back all day, they made up their minds to march away at night, I had to lave my patients and be off too. Then I was shut up in Limerick; and I was not idle there, as you may guess. When at last the surrender came, I managed to slip away, having no fancy for going over with the regiments that were to enter the service of France. I thought I could have gone back to Dublin, and that no one would trouble about me; but someone put them up to it, and I had to go without stopping to ask leave. I landed at Bristol, and there, for a time, was nearly starving. "I was well nigh my wits' end as to what to do for a living, and had just spent my last shilling, when I met an English captain, who told me that across at Gottenburg there were a good many Irish and Scotchmen who had, like myself, been in trouble at home. He gave me a passage across, and took me to the house of a man he knew. Of course, it was no use my trying to doctor people, when they could not tell me what was the matter with them, and I worked at one thing and another, doing anything I could turn my hands to, for four or five months. That is how I got to pick up Swedish. Then some people told me that Russia was a place where a doctor might get on, for that they had got no doctors for their army who knew anything of surgery, and the czar was always ready to take on foreigners who could teach them anything. I had got my diploma with me, and some of my friends came forward and subscribed enough to rig me out in clothes and pay my passage. What was better, one of them happened to have made the acquaintance of Le Ford, who was, as you may have heard, the czar's most intimate friend. "I wished myself back a hundred times before I reached Moscow, but when I did, everything was easy for me. Le Ford introduced me to the czar, and I was appointed surgeon of a newly-raised regiment, of which Le Ford was colonel. That was eight years ago, and I am now a sort of surgeon general of a division, and am at the head of the hospitals about here. Till the war began I had not, for five years, done any military work, but had been at the head of a college the czar has established for training surgeons for the army. I was only sent down here after that business at Narva. "So, you see, I have fallen on my feet. The czar's is a good service, and we employ a score or two of Scotchmen, most of them in good posts. He took to them because a Scotchman, General Gordon, and other foreign officers, rescued him from his sister Sophia, who intended to assassinate him, and established him firmly on the throne of his father. "It is a pity you are not on this side. Perhaps it isn't too late to change, eh?" Charlie laughed. "My father is in Sweden, and my company is commanded by a man who is as good as a father to me, and his son is like my brother. If there were no other reason, I could not change. Why, it was only yesterday I was sitting round a bivouac fire with King Charles, and nothing would induce me to fight against him." "I am not going to try to persuade you. The czar has treated me well, and I love him. By the way, I have not given you my name after all. It's Terence Kelly." "Is not the czar very fierce and cruel?" "Bedad, I would be much more cruel and fierce if I were in his place. Just think of one man, with all Russia on his shoulders. There is he trying to improve the country, working like a horse himself, knowing that, like every other Russian, he is as ignorant as a pig, and setting to improve himself--working in the dockyards of Holland and England, attending lectures, and all kinds of subjects. Why, man, he learnt anatomy, and can take off a leg as quickly as I can. He is building a fleet and getting together an army. It is not much good yet, you will say, but it will be some day. You can turn a peasant into a soldier in six months, but it takes a long time to turn out generals and officers who are fit for their work. "Then, while he is trying everywhere to improve his country, every man jack of them objects to being improved, and wants to go along in his old ways. Didn't they get up an insurrection, only because he wanted them to cut off their beards? Any other man would have lost heart, and given it up years ago. It looks as hopeless a task as for a mouse to drag a mountain, but he is doing it. "I don't say that he is perfect. He gets into passions, and it is mighty hard for anyone he gets into a passion with. But who would not get into passions, when there is so much work to be done, and everyone tries to hinder instead of to help? It would break the heart of Saint Patrick! Why, that affair at Narva would have broken down most men. Here, for years, has he been working to make an army, and the first time they meet an enemy worthy of the name, what do they do? Why, they are beaten by a tenth of their number of half-starved men, led by a mad-brained young fellow who had never heard a shot fired before, and lose all their cannon, guns, ammunition, and stores. Why, I was heartbroken, myself, when I heard of it; but Peter, instead of blowing out his brains, or drowning himself, set to work, an hour after the news reached him, to bring up fresh troops, to re-arm the men, and to prepare to meet the Swedes again, as soon as the snow is off the ground. "If James of England had been Peter of Russia, he would be ruling over Ireland now, and England and Scotland, too. "But now, I must be off. Don't you worry about your head. I have seen as bad a clip given by a blackthorn. I have got to go round now and see the wounded, and watch some operations being done, but I will come in again this evening. Don't eat any more of their messes, if they bring them in. You and I will have a snug little dinner together. I might get you put into a more dacent chamber, but the general is one of the old pig-headed sort. We don't pull together, so I would rather not ask any favours from him. "The czar may come any day--he is always flying about. I will speak to him when he comes, and see that you have better entertainment." Chapter 7: Exchanged. Late in the afternoon, Doctor Kelly came in again to the cell. "Come along," he said; "I have got lave for you to have supper with me, and have given my pledge that you won't try to escape till it is over, or make any onslaught on the garrison, but will behave like a quiet and peaceable man." "You are quite safe in giving the pledge, doctor," Charlie laughed. "Come along then, me boy, for they were just dishing up when I came to fetch you. It is cold enough outside, and there is no sinse in putting cold victuals into one in such weather as this." They were not long in reaching a snugly-furnished room, where a big fire was burning. Another gentleman was standing, with his back to it. He was a man of some seven or eight and twenty, with large features, dark brown hair falling in natural curls over his ears, and large and powerful in build. "This is my friend, Charlie Carstairs," the doctor said. "This, Carstairs, is Peter Michaeloff, a better doctor than most of those who mangle the czar's soldiers." "Things will better in time," the other said, "when your pupils begin to take their places in the army." "I hope so," the doctor said, shrugging his shoulders. "There is one comfort, they can't be much worse." At this moment a servant entered, bearing a bowl of soup and three basins. They at once seated themselves at the table. "So you managed to get yourself captured yesterday," Doctor Michaeloff said to Charlie. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing many of you gentlemen here." "We don't come if we can help it," Charlie laughed. "But the Cossacks were so pressing, that I could not resist. In fact, I did not know anything about it, until I was well on the way." "I hope they have made you comfortable," the other said, sharply. "I can't say much for the food," Charlie said, "and still less for the cell, which was bitterly cold. Still, as the doctor gave me two rugs to wrap myself up in, I need not grumble." "That is not right," the other said angrily. "I hear that the King of Sweden treats our prisoners well. "You should have remonstrated, Kelly." The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "I ventured to hint to the general that I thought an officer had a right to better treatment, even if he were a prisoner, but I was told sharply to mind my own business, which was with the sick and wounded. I said, as the prisoner was wounded, I thought it was a matter that did come to some extent under my control." "What did the pig say?" "He grumbled something between his teeth, that I did not catch, and, as I thought the prisoner would not be kept there long, and was not unaccustomed to roughing it, it was not worthwhile pressing the matter further." "Have you heard that an officer has been here this afternoon, with a flag of truce, to treat for your exchange?" Doctor Michaeloff said, turning suddenly to Charlie. "No, I have not heard anything about it," Charlie said. "He offered a captain for you, which you may consider a high honour." "It is, no doubt," Charlie said, with a smile. "I suppose his majesty thought, as it was in his special service I was caught, he was bound to get me released, if he could." "It was a hunting party, was it not?" "Yes. There was only the king with four of his officers there, and my company of foot, and fifty horse. I don't think I can call it an escort, for we went principally as beaters." "Rustoff missed a grand chance there, Kelly. "What regiment do you belong to?" And he again turned to Charlie. "The Malmoe Regiment. The company is commanded by an English gentleman, who is a neighbour and great friend of my father. His son is an ensign, and my greatest friend. The men are all either Scotch or English, but most of them Scotch." "They are good soldiers, the Scotch; none better. There are a good many in the Russian service, also in that of Austria and France. They are always faithful, and to be relied upon, even when native troops prove treacherous. And you like Charles of Sweden?" "There is not a soldier in his army but likes him," Charlie said enthusiastically. "He expects us to do much, but he does more himself. All through the winter, he did everything in his power for us, riding long distances from camp to camp, to visit the sick and to keep up the spirits of the men. If we live roughly, so does he, and, on the march, he will take his meals among the soldiers, and wrap himself up in his cloak, and sleep on the bare ground, just as they do. And as for his bravery, he exposes his life recklessly--too recklessly, we all think--and it seemed a miracle that, always in the front as he was, he should have got through Narva without a scratch." "Yes, that was a bad bit of business, that Narva," the other said thoughtfully. "Why do you think we were beaten in the horrible way we were?--because the Russians are no cowards." "No; they made a gallant stand when they recovered from their surprise," Charlie agreed. "But in the first place, they were taken by surprise." "They ought not to have been," the doctor said angrily. "They had news, two days before, brought by the cavalry, who ought to have defended that pass, but didn't." "Still, it was a surprise when we attacked," Charlie said, "for they could not suppose that the small body they saw were going to assail them. Then, we had the cover of that snowstorm, and they did not see us, until we reached the edge of the ditch. Of course, your general ought to have made proper dispositions, and to have collected the greater part of his troops at the spot facing us, instead of having them strung out round that big semicircle, so that, when we made an entry they were separated, and each half was ignorant of what the other was doing. Still, even then they might have concentrated between the trenches and the town. But no orders had been given. The general was one of the first we captured. The others waited for the orders that never came, until it was too late. If the general who commanded on the left had massed his troops, and marched against us as we were attacking the position they held on their right, we should have been caught between two fires." "It was a badly managed business, altogether," Doctor Michaeloff growled; "but we shall do better next time. We shall understand Charles's tactics better. We reckoned on his troops, but we did not reckon on him. "Kelly tells me that you would not care to change service." "My friends are in the Swedish army, and I am well satisfied with the service. I daresay, if Russia had been nearer England than Sweden is, and we had landed there first, we should have been as glad to enter the service of the czar as we were to join that of King Charles. Everyone says that the czar makes strangers welcome, and that he is a liberal master to those who serve him well. As to the quarrel between them, I am not old enough to be able to give my opinion on it, though, as far as I am concerned, it seems to me that it was not a fair thing for Russia to take advantage of Sweden's being at war with Denmark and Augustus of Saxony, to fall upon her without any cause of quarrel." "Nations move less by morality than interest," Doctor Michaeloff said calmly. "Russia wants a way to the sea--the Turks cut her off to the south, and the Swedes from the Baltic. She is smothered between them, and when she saw her chance, she took it. That is not good morality. I admit that it is the excuse of the poor man who robs the rich, but it is human nature, and nations act, in the long run, a good deal like individuals." "But you have not told me yet, doctor," Charlie said, turning the conversation, "whether the proposal for an exchange was accepted." "The general had no power to accept it, Carstairs. It had to be referred to the czar himself." "I wish his majesty could see me, then," Charlie laughed. "He would see that I am but a lad, and that my release would not greatly strengthen the Swedish army." "But then the czar may be of opinion that none of his officers, who allowed themselves to be captured by a handful of men at Narva, would be of any use to him," Doctor Michaeloff laughed. "That may, doubtless, be said of a good many among them," Charlie said, "but, individually, none of the captains could be blamed for the mess they made of it." "Perhaps not, but if all the men had been panic stricken, there were officers enough to have gathered together and cut their way through the Swedes." "No doubt there were; but you must remember, Doctor Michaeloff, that an officer's place is with his company, and that it is his duty to think of his men, before thinking of himself. Supposing all the officers of the left wing, as you say, had gathered together and cut their way out, the czar would have had a right to blame them for the capture of the whole of the men. How could they tell that, at daybreak, the general would not have given orders for the left wing to attack the Swedes? They were strong enough still to have eaten us up, had they made the effort, and had the czar been there in person, I will warrant he would have tried it." "That he would," Doctor Michaeloff said warmly. "You are right there, young sir. The czar may not be a soldier, but at least he is a man, which is more than can be said for the officer who ordered sixty thousand men to lay down their arms to eight thousand." "I am sure of that," Charlie said. "A man who would do as he has done, leave his kingdom, and work like a common man in dockyards, to learn how to build ships, and who rules his people as he does, must be a great man. I don't suppose he would do for us in England, because a king has no real power with us, and Peter would never put up with being thwarted in all his plans by parliament, as William is. But for a country like Russia, he is wonderful. Of course, our company being composed of Scotchmen and Englishmen, we have no prejudices against him. We think him wrong for entering upon this war against Sweden, but we all consider him a wonderful fellow, just the sort of fellow one would be proud to serve under, if we did not serve under Charles of Sweden. "Well, Doctor Kelly, when do you think the czar will be here?" The doctor did not reply, but Michaeloff said quietly: "He arrived this afternoon." "He did!" Charlie exclaimed excitedly. "Why did you not tell me before, Doctor Kelly? Has he been asked about my exchange, and is the Swedish officer still here?" "He is here, and you will be exchanged in the morning. "I have other things to see about now, and must say goodnight; and if you should ever fall into the hands of our people again, and Doctor Kelly does not happen to be near, ask for Peter Michaeloff, and he will do all he can for you." "Then I am really to be exchanged tomorrow, doctor?" Charlie said, as Doctor Michaeloff left the room. "It seems like it." "But did not you know?" "No, I had heard nothing for certain. I knew the czar had come, but I had not heard of his decision. I congratulate you." "It is a piece of luck," Charlie said. "I thought it might be months before there was an exchange. It is very good of the king to send over so quickly." "Yes; and of the czar to let you go." "Well, I don't see much in that, doctor, considering that he gets a captain in exchange for me; still, of course, he might have refused. It would not have been civil, but he might have done it." "What did you think of my friend, Charlie?" "I like him. He has a pleasant face, though I should think he has got a temper of his own. He has a splendid figure, and looks more like a fighting man than a doctor. I will write down his name, so as not to forget it, as he says he might be able to help me if I am ever taken prisoner again, and you did not happen to be with the army. It is always nice having a friend. Look at the difference it has made to me, finding a countryman here." "Yes, you may find it useful, Carstairs; and he has a good deal of influence. Still, I think it probable that if you ever should get into a scrape again, you will be able to get tidings of me, for I am likely to be with the advanced division of our army, wherever it is, as I am in charge of its hospitals. "You had better turn in now, for I suppose you will be starting early, and I have two or three patients I must visit again before I go to bed. This is your room, next to mine. I managed, after all, to get it changed." "That is very good of you, doctor, but it really would not have mattered a bit for one night. It does look snug and warm, with that great fire." "Yes, the stoves are the one thing I don't like in Russia. I like to see a blazing fire, and the first thing I do, when I get into fresh quarters, is to have the stove opened so that I can see one. This is a second room of mine. There were three together, you see, and as my rank is that of a colonel, I was able to get them, and it is handy, if a friend comes to see me, to have a room for him." An hour later, just as Charlie was dozing off to sleep, the doctor put his head in to the door. "You are to start at daybreak, Carstairs. My servant will call you an hour before that. I shall be up. I must put a fresh bandage on your head before you start." "Thank you very much, doctor. I am sorry to get you up so early." "That is nothing. I am accustomed to work at all hours. Good night." At eight o'clock, having had a bowl of broth, Charlie descended to the courtyard in charge of an officer and two soldiers, the doctor accompanying him. Here he found a Swedish officer belonging to the king's personal staff. The Russian handed the lad formally over to his charge, saying: "By the orders of the czar, I now exchange Ensign Carstairs for Captain Potoff, whom you, on your part, engage to send off at once." "I do," the Swede said; "that is, I engage that he shall be sent off, as soon as he can be fetched from Revel, where he is now interned, and shall be safely delivered under an escort; and that if, either by death, illness, or escape, I should not be able to hand him over, I will return another officer of the same rank." "I have the czar's commands," the Russian went on, "to express his regret that, owing to a mistake on the part of the officer commanding here, Ensign Carstairs has not received such worthy treatment as the czar would have desired for him, but he has given stringent orders that, in future, any Swedish officers who may be taken prisoners shall receive every comfort and hospitality that can be shown them." "Goodbye, Doctor Kelly," Charlie said, as he mounted his horse, which had been saddled in readiness for him. "I am greatly obliged to you for your very great kindness to me, and hope that I may some day have an opportunity of repaying it." "I hope not, Carstairs. I trust that we may meet again, but hope that I sha'n't be in the position of a prisoner. However, strange things have happened already in this war, and there is no saying how fortune may go. Goodbye, and a pleasant journey." A Russian officer took his place by the side of the Swede, and an escort of twenty troopers rode behind them, as they trotted out through the gate of the convent. "It was very kind of the king to send for me," Charlie said to the Swede, "and I am really sorry that you should have had so long a ride on my account, Captain Pradovich." "As to that, it is a trifle," the officer said. "If I had not been riding here, I should be riding with the king elsewhere, so that I am none the worse. But, in truth, I am glad I came, for yesterday evening I saw the czar himself. I conversed with him for some time. He expressed himself very courteously with respect to the king, and to our army, against whom he seems to bear no sort of malice for the defeat we inflicted on him at Narva. He spoke of it himself, and said, 'you will see that, some day, we shall turn the tables upon you.' "The king will be pleased when I return with you, for we all feared that you might be very badly hurt. All that we knew was that some of your men had seen you cut down. After the battle was over, a search was made for your body. When it could not be found, questions were asked of some of our own men, and some wounded Russians, who were lying near the spot where you had been seen to fall. "Our men had seen nothing, for, as the Russians closed in behind your company as it advanced, they had shut their eyes and lay as if dead, fearing that they might be run through, as they lay, by the Cossack lances. The Russians, however, told us that they had seen two of the Cossacks dismount, by the orders of one of their officers, lift you on to a horse, and ride off with you. There was therefore a certainty that you were still living, for the Russians would assuredly not have troubled to carry off a dead body. His majesty interested himself very much in the matter, and yesterday morning sent me off to inquire if you were alive, and if so, to propose an exchange. "I was much pleased, when I reached Plescow yesterday, to learn that your wound is not a serious one. I saw the doctor, who, I found, was a countryman of yours, and he assured me that it was nothing, and made some joke that I did not understand about the thickness of North Country skulls. "The czar arrived in the afternoon, but I did not see him until late in the evening, when I was sent for. I found him with the general in command, and several other officers, among whom was your friend the doctor. The czar was, at first, in a furious passion. He abused the general right and left, and I almost thought, at one time, that he would have struck him. He told him that he had disgraced the Russian name, by not treating you with proper hospitality, and especially by placing you in a miserable cell without a fire. "'What will the King of Sweden think?' he said. 'He treats his prisoners with kindness and courtesy, and after Narva gave them a banquet, at which he himself was present. The Duke of Croy writes to me, to say he is treated as an honoured guest rather than as a prisoner, and here you disgrace us by shutting your prisoner in a cheerless cell, although he is wounded, and giving him food such as you might give to a common soldier. The Swedes will think that we are barbarians. You are released from your command, and will at once proceed to Moscow and report yourself there, when a post will be assigned to you where you will have no opportunity of showing yourself ignorant of the laws of courtesy. "'Doctor,' he went on, 'you will remember that all prisoners, officers and men, will be henceforth under the charge of the medical department, and that you have full authority to make such arrangements as you may think necessary for their comfort and honourable treatment. I will not have Russia made a byword among civilized peoples.' "Then he dismissed the rest of them, and afterwards sat down and chatted with me, just as if we had been of the same rank, puffing a pipe furiously, and drinking amazing quantities of wine. Indeed, my head feels the effects of it this morning, although I was quite unable to drink cup for cup with him, for, had I done so, I should have been under the table long before he rose from it, seemingly quite unmoved by the quantity he had drank. I have no doubt he summoned me especially to hear his rebuke to the general, so that I could take word to the king how earnest he was, in his regrets for your treatment." "There was nothing much to complain of," Charlie said; "and, indeed, the cell was a palace after the miserable huts in which we have passed the winter. I am glad, however, the czar gave the general a wigging, for he spoke brutally to me on my arrival. You may be sure, now, that any prisoners that may be taken will be well treated; for Doctor Kelly, who has been extremely kind to me, will certainly take good care of them. As to my wound, it is of little consequence. It fell on my steel cap, and I think I was stunned by its force, rather than rendered insensible by the cut itself." After three hours' riding they came to a village. As soon as they were seen approaching, there was a stir there. A man riding ahead waved the white flag that he carried, and, when they entered the village, they found a party of fifty Swedish cavalry in the saddle. The Russian escort, as soon as the Swedish officer and Charlie had joined their friends, turned and rode off. A meal was in readiness, and when Charlie, who was still feeling somewhat weak from the effects of his wound, had partaken of it, the party proceeded on their way, and rode into Marienburg before nightfall. Two or three miles outside the town, they met Harry Jervoise. Two soldiers had been sent on at full speed, directly Charlie reached the village, to report that he had arrived there and was not seriously wounded, and, knowing about the time they would arrive, Harry had ridden out to meet his friend. "You are looking white," he said, after the first hearty greeting. "I am feeling desperately tired, Harry. The wound is of no consequence, but I lost a good deal of blood, and it is as much as I can do to keep my saddle, though we have been coming on quietly on purpose. However, I shall soon be all right again, and I need hardly say that I am heartily glad to be back." "We have all been in a great way about you, Charlie, for we made sure that you were very badly wounded. I can tell you, it was a relief when the men rode in three hours ago, with the news that you had arrived, and were not badly hurt. The men seemed as pleased as we were, and there was a loud burst of cheering when we told them the news. Cunningham and Forbes would have ridden out with me; but Cunningham is on duty, and Forbes thought that we should like to have a chat together." On his arrival, Charlie was heartily welcomed by Captain Jervoise and the men of the company, who cheered lustily as he rode up. "You are to go and see the king at once," Captain Jervoise said as he dismounted. "I believe he wants to hear, especially, how you were treated. Make the best of it you can, lad. There is no occasion for the feeling of Charles against the Russians being embittered." "I understand," Charlie said. "I will make things as smooth as I can." He walked quickly to the little house where the king had taken up his quarters. There was no sentry at the door, or other sign that the house contained an occupant of special rank. He knocked at the door, and hearing a shout of "Enter," opened it and went in. "Ah, my young ensign; is it you?" the king said, rising from a low settle on which he was sitting by the fire, talking with Colonel Schlippenbach. "Hurt somewhat, I see, but not badly, I hope. I was sure that you would not have been taken prisoner, unless you had been injured." "I was cut down by a blow that clove my helmet, your majesty, and stunned me for some time; but, beyond making a somewhat long gash on my skull, it did me no great harm." "That speaks well for the thickness of your skull, lad, and I am heartily glad it is no worse. Now, tell me, how did they treat you?" "It was a somewhat rough cell into which I was thrown, sir, but I was most kindly tended by an Irish doctor high in the czar's service, and, when the czar himself arrived, and learned that I had not been lodged as well as he thought necessary, I hear he was so angered that he disgraced the general, deprived him of his command, and sent him to take charge of some fortress in the interior of Russia; and I was, by his orders, allowed to occupy the doctor's quarters, and a bedroom was assigned to me next to his. I heard that the czar spoke in terms of the warmest appreciation of your treatment of your prisoners, and said that any of your officers who fell into his hands should be treated with equal courtesy." Charles looked gratified. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "In the field, if necessary, blood must flow like water, but there is no reason why we should not behave towards each other with courtesy, when the fighting is over. You know nothing of the force there, at present?" "No, sir, I heard nothing. I did not exchange a word with anyone, save the doctor and another medical man; and as the former treated me as a friend, rather than as an enemy, I did not deem it right to question him, and, had I done so, I am sure that he would have given me no answer." "Well, you can return to your quarters, sir. Your company did me good service in that fight, and Colonel Schlippenbach did not speak in any way too warmly in their favour. I would that I had more of these brave Englishmen and Scotchmen in my service." Charlie's head, however, was not as hard as he had believed it to be; and the long ride brought on inflammation of the wound, so that, on the following morning, he was in a high state of fever. It was a fortnight before he was convalescent, and the surgeon then recommended that he should have rest and quiet for a time, as he was sorely pulled down, and unfit to bear the hardships of a campaign; and it was settled that he should go down with the next convoy to Revel, and thence take ship for Sweden. He was so weak, that although very sorry to leave the army just as spring was commencing, he himself felt that he should be unable to support the fatigues of the campaign, until he had had entire rest and change. A few hours after the decision of the surgeon had been given, Major Jamieson and Captain Jervoise entered the room where he was sitting, propped up by pillows. "I have a bit of news that will please you, Charlie. The king sent for the major this morning, and told him that he intended to increase our company to a regiment, if he could do so. He had heard that a considerable number of Scotchmen and Englishmen had come over, and were desirous of enlisting, but, from their ignorance of the language, their services had been declined. He said that he was so pleased, not only with the conduct of the company in that fight, but with its discipline, physique, and power of endurance, that he had decided to convert it into a regiment. He said he was sorry to lose its services for a time; but, as we lost twenty men in the fight, and have some fifteen still too disabled to take their places in the ranks, this was of the less importance. "So we are all going to march down to Revel with you. Major Jamieson is appointed colonel, and I am promoted to be major. The king himself directed that Cunningham and Forbes shall have commissions as captains, and you and Harry as lieutenants. The colonel has authority given him to nominate Scotch and English gentlemen of good name to make up the quota of officers, while most of our own men will be appointed non-commissioned officers, to drill the new recruits. The king has been good enough, at Colonel Jamieson's request, to say that, as soon as the regiment is raised and organized, it shall be sent up to the front." "That is good news, indeed," Charlie said, with more animation than he had evinced since his illness. "I have been so accustomed to be attended to, in every way, that I was quite looking forward with dread to the journey among strangers. Still, if you are all going, it will be a different thing altogether. I don't think you will be long in raising the regiment. We only were a week in getting the company together, and, if they have been refusing to accept the services of our people, there must be numbers of them at Gottenburg." Early on the following morning, Charlie and the men unable to march were placed in waggons, and the company started on its march to Revel. It was a heavy journey, for the frost had broken up, and the roads were in a terrible state from the heavy traffic passing. There was no delay when they reached the port, as they at once marched on board a ship, which was the next day to start for Sweden. Orders from the king had already been received that the company was to be conveyed direct to Gottenburg, and they entered the port on the fifth day after sailing. The change, the sea air, and the prospect of seeing his father again greatly benefited Charlie, and, while the company was marched to a large building assigned to their use, he was able to make his way on foot to his father's, assisted by his soldier servant, Jock Armstrong. "Why, Charlie," Sir Marmaduke Carstairs exclaimed as he entered, "who would have thought of seeing you? You are looking ill, lad; ill and weak. What has happened to you?" Charlie briefly related the events that had brought about his return to Gottenburg, of which Sir Marmaduke was entirely ignorant. Postal communications were rare and uncertain, and Captain Jervoise had not taken advantage of the one opportunity that offered, after Charlie had been wounded, thinking it better to delay till the lad could write and give a good account of himself. "So Jervoise, and his son, and that good fellow Jamieson are all back again? That is good news, Charlie; and you have been promoted? That is capital too, after only a year in the service. And you have been wounded, and a prisoner among the Russians? You have had adventures, indeed! I was terribly uneasy when the first news of that wonderful victory at Narva came, for we generally have to wait for the arrival of the despatches giving the lists of the killed and wounded. I saw that the regiment had not been in the thick of it, as the lists contained none of your names. I would have given a limb to have taken part in that wonderful battle. When you get as old as I am, my boy, you will feel a pride in telling how you fought at Narva, and helped to destroy an entire Russian army with the odds ten to one against you. "Of course, you will stay here with me. I suppose you have leave at present?" "Yes, father, Colonel Jamieson told me that my first duty was to get strong and well again, and that I was to think of no other until I had performed that. And how have you been getting on, father?" "Very well, lad. I don't pretend that it is not a great change from Lynnwood, but I get along very well, and thank heaven, daily, that for so many years I had set aside a portion of my rents, little thinking that the time would come when they would prove my means of existence. My friends here have invested the money for me, and it bears good interest, which is punctually paid. With the English and Scotch exiles, I have as much society as I care for, and as I find I am able to keep a horse--for living here is not more than half the cost that it would be in England--I am well enough contented with my lot. "There is but one thing that pricks me. That villain John Dormay has, as he schemed for, obtained possession of my estates, and has been knighted for his distinguished services to the king. I heard of this some time since, by a letter from one of our Jacobite friends to whom I wrote, asking for news. He says that the new knight has no great cause for enjoyment in his dignity and possessions, because, not only do the Jacobite gentry turn their backs upon him, when they meet him in the town, but the better class of Whigs hold altogether aloof from him, regarding his elevation, at the expense of his wife's kinsman, to be disgraceful, although of course they have no idea of the evil plot by which he brought about my ruin. There is great pity expressed for his wife, who has not once stirred beyond the grounds at Lynnwood since he took her there, and who is, they say, a shadow of her former self. Ciceley, he hears, is well. That cub of a son is in London, and there are reports that he is very wild, and puts his father to much cost. As to the man himself, they say he is surrounded by the lowest knaves, and it is rumoured that he has taken to drink for want of better company. It is some comfort to me to think that, although the villain has my estates, he is getting no enjoyment out of them. "However, I hope some day to have a reckoning with him. The Stuarts must come to their own, sooner or later. Until then I am content to rest quietly here in Sweden." Chapter 8: The Passage of the Dwina. A few hours after Charlie's arrival home, Major Jervoise and Harry came round to the house. "I congratulate you, Jervoise, on your new rank," Sir Marmaduke said heartily, as he entered; "and you, too, Harry. It has been a great comfort to me, to know that you and Charlie have been together always. At present you have the advantage of him in looks. My lad has no more strength than a girl, not half the strength, indeed, of many of these sturdy Swedish maidens." "Yes, Charlie has had a bad bout of it, Carstairs," Major Jervoise said cheerfully; "but he has picked up wonderfully in the last ten days, and, in as many more, I shall look to see him at work again. I only wish that you could have been with us, old friend." "It is of no use wishing, Jervoise. We have heard enough here, of what the troops have been suffering through the winter, for me to know that, if I had had my wish and gone with you, my bones would now be lying somewhere under the soil of Livonia." "Yes, it was a hard time," Major Jervoise agreed, "but we all got through it well, thanks principally to our turning to at sports of all kinds. These kept the men in health, and prevented them from moping. The king was struck with the condition of our company, and he has ordered that, in future, all the Swedish troops shall take part in such games and amusements when in winter quarters. Of course, Charlie has told you we are going to have a regiment entirely composed of Scots and Englishmen. I put the Scots first, since they will be by far the most numerous. There are always plenty of active spirits, who find but small opening for their energy at home, and are ready to take foreign service whenever the chance opens. Besides, there are always feuds there. In the old days, it was chief against chief. Now it is religion against religion; and now, as then, there are numbers of young fellows glad to exchange the troubles at home for service abroad. There have been quite a crowd of men round our quarters, for, directly the news spread that the company was landing, our countrymen flocked round, each eager to learn how many vacancies there were in the ranks, and whether we would receive recruits. Their joy was extreme when it became known that Jamieson had authority to raise a whole regiment. I doubt not that many of the poor fellows are in great straits." "That I can tell you they are," Sir Marmaduke broke in. "We have been doing what we can for them, for it was grievous that so many men should be wandering, without means or employment, in a strange country. But the number was too great for our money to go far among them, and I know that many of them are destitute and well-nigh starving. We had hoped to ship some of them back to Scotland, and have been treating with the captain of a vessel sailing, in two or three days, to carry them home." "It is unfortunate, but they have none to blame but themselves. They should have waited until an invitation for foreigners to enlist was issued by the Swedish government, or until gentlemen of birth raised companies and regiments for service here. However, we are the gainers, for I see that we shall not have to wait here many weeks. Already, as far as I can judge from what I hear, there must be well-nigh four hundred men here, all eager to serve. "We will send the news by the next ship that sails, both to Scotland and to our own country, that men, active and fit for service, can be received into a regiment, specially formed of English-speaking soldiers. I will warrant that, when it is known in the Fells that I am a major in the regiment, and that your son and mine are lieutenants, we shall have two or three score of stout young fellows coming over." The next day, indeed, nearly four hundred men were enlisted into the service, and were divided into eight companies. Each of these, when complete, was to be two hundred strong. Six Scottish officers were transferred, from Swedish regiments, to fill up the list of captains, and commissions were given to several gentlemen of family as lieutenants and ensigns. Most of these, however, were held over, as the colonel wrote to many gentlemen of his acquaintance in Scotland, offering them commissions if they would raise and bring over men. Major Jervoise did the same to half a dozen young Jacobite gentlemen in the north of England, and so successful were the appeals that, within two months of the return of the company to Gottenburg, the regiment had been raised to its full strength. A fortnight was spent in drilling the last batch of recruits, from morning till night, so that they should be able to take their places in the ranks; and then, with drums beating and colours flying, the corps embarked at Gottenburg, and sailed to join the army. They arrived at Revel in the beginning of May. The port was full of ships, for twelve thousand men had embarked, at Stockholm and other ports, to reinforce the army and enable the king to take the field in force; and, by the end of the month, the greater portion of the force was concentrated at Dorpt. Charlie had long since regained his full strength. As soon as he was fit for duty, he had rejoined, and had been engaged, early and late, in the work of drilling the recruits, and in the general organization of the regiment. He and Harry, however, found time to take part in any amusement that was going on. They were made welcome in the houses of the principal merchants and other residents of Gottenburg, and much enjoyed their stay in the town, in spite of their longing to be back in time to take part in the early operations of the campaign. When they sailed into the port of Revel, they found that the campaign had but just commenced, and they marched with all haste to join the force with which the king was advancing against the Saxons, who were still besieging Riga. Their army was commanded by Marshal Steinau, and was posted on the other side of the river Dwina, a broad stream. Charles the Twelfth had ridden up to Colonel Jamieson's regiment upon its arrival, and expressed warm gratification at its appearance, when it was paraded for his inspection. "You have done well, indeed, colonel," he said. "I had hardly hoped you could have collected so fine a body of men in so short a time." At his request, the officers were brought up and introduced. He spoke a few words to those he had known before, saying to Charlie: "I am glad to see you back again, lieutenant. You have quite recovered from that crack on your crown, I hope. But I need not ask, your looks speak for themselves. You have just got back in time to pay my enemies back for it." The prospect was not a cheerful one, when the Swedes arrived on the banks of the Dwina. The Saxons were somewhat superior in force, and it would be a desperate enterprise to cross the river, in the teeth of their cannon and musketry. Already the king had caused a number of large flat boats to be constructed. The sides were made very high, so as to completely cover the troops from musketry, and were hinged so as to let down and act as gangways, and facilitate a landing. Charlie was standing on the bank, looking at the movements of the Saxon troops across the river, and wondering how the passage was to be effected, when a hand was placed on his shoulder. Looking round, he saw it was the king, who, as was his custom, was moving about on foot, unattended by any of his officers. "Wondering how we are to get across, lieutenant?" "That is just what I was thinking over, your majesty." "We want another snowstorm, as we had at Narva," the king said. "The wind is blowing the right way, but there is no chance of such another stroke of luck, at this time of year." "No, sir; but I was thinking that one might make an artificial fog." "How do you mean?" the king asked quickly. "Your majesty has great stacks of straw here, collected for forage for the cattle. No doubt a good deal of it is damp, or if not, it could be easily wetted. If we were to build great piles of it, all along on the banks here, and set it alight so as to burn very slowly, but to give out a great deal of smoke, this light wind would blow it across the river into the faces of the Saxons, and completely cover our movements." "You are right!" the king exclaimed. "Nothing could be better. We will make a smoke that will blind and half smother them;" and he hurried away. An hour later, orders were sent out to all the regiments that, as soon as it became dusk, the men should assemble at the great forage stores for fatigue duty. As soon as they did so, they were ordered to pull down the stacks, and to carry the straw to the bank of the river, and there pile it in heavy masses, twenty yards apart. The whole was to be damped, with the exception of only a small quantity on the windward side of the heaps, which was to be used for starting the fire. In two hours, the work was completed. The men were then ordered to return to their camps, have their suppers, and lie down at once. Then they were to form up, half an hour before daybreak, in readiness to take their places in the boats, and were then to lie down, in order, until the word was given to move forward. This was done, and just as the daylight appeared the heaps of straw were lighted, and dense volumes of smoke rolled across the river, entirely obscuring the opposite shore from view. The Saxons, enveloped in the smoke, were unable to understand its meaning. Those on the watch had seen no sign of troops on the bank, before the smoke began to roll across the water, and the general was uncertain whether a great fire had broken out in the forage stores of the Swedes, or whether the fire had been purposely raised, either to cover the movements of the army and enable them to march away and cross at some undefended point, or whether to cover their passage. The Swedish regiments, which were the first to cross, took their places at once in the boats, the king himself accompanying them. In a quarter of an hour the opposite bank was gained. Marshal Steinau, an able general, had called the Saxons under arms, and was marching towards the river, when the wind, freshening, lifted the thick veil of smoke, and he saw that the Swedes had already gained the bank of the river, and at once hurled his cavalry against them. The Swedish formation was not complete and, for a moment, they were driven back in disorder, and forced into the river. The water was shallow, and the king, going about among them, quickly restored order and discipline, and, charging in solid formation, they drove the cavalry back and advanced across the plain. Steinau recalled his troops and posted them in a strong position, one flank being covered by a marsh and the other by a wood. He had time to effect his arrangements, as Charles was compelled to wait until the whole of his troops were across. As soon as they were so, he led them against the enemy. The battle was a severe one, for the Swedes were unprovided with artillery, and the Saxons, with the advantages of position and a powerful artillery, fought steadily. Three times Marshal Steinau led his cavalry in desperate charges, and each time almost penetrated to the point where Charles was directing the movements of his troops; but, at last, he was struck from his horse by a blow from the butt end of a musket; and his cuirassiers, with difficulty, carried him from the field. As soon as his fall became known, disorder spread among the ranks of the Saxons. Some regiments gave way, and, the Swedes rushing forward with loud shouts, the whole army was speedily in full flight. This victory laid the whole of Courland at the mercy of the Swedes, all the towns opening their gates at their approach. They were now on the confines of Poland, and the king, brave to rashness as he was, hesitated to attack a nation so powerful. Poland, at that time, was a country a little larger than France, though with a somewhat smaller population, but in this respect exceeding Sweden. With the Poles themselves he had no quarrel, for they had taken no part in the struggle, which had been carried on solely by their king, with his Saxon troops. The authority of the kings of Poland was much smaller than that of other European monarchs. The office was not a hereditary one; the king being elected at a diet, composed of the whole of the nobles of the country, the nobility embracing practically every free man; and, as it was necessary, according to the constitution of the country, that the vote should be unanimous, the difficulties in the way of election were very great, and civil wars of constant occurrence. Charles was determined that he would drive Augustus, who was the author of the league against him, from the throne; but he desired to do this by means of the Poles themselves, rather than to unite the whole nation against him by invading the country. Poland was divided into two parts, the larger of which was Poland proper, which could at once place thirty thousand men in the field. The other was Lithuania, with an army of twelve thousand. These forces were entirely independent of each other. The troops were for the most part cavalry, and the small force, permanently kept up, was composed almost entirely of horsemen. They rarely drew pay, and subsisted entirely on plunder, being as formidable to their own people as to an enemy. Lithuania, on whose borders the king had taken post with his army, was, as usual, harassed by two factions, that of the Prince Sapieha and the Prince of Oginski, between whom a civil war was going on. The King of Sweden took the part of the former, and, furnishing him with assistance, speedily enabled him to overcome the Oginski party, who received but slight aid from the Saxons. Oginski's forces were speedily dispersed, and roamed about the country in scattered parties, subsisting on pillage, thereby exciting among the people a lively feeling of hatred against the King of Poland, who was regarded as the author of the misfortunes that had befallen the country. From the day when Charlie's suggestion, of burning damp straw to conceal the passage of the river, had been attended with such success, the king had held him in high favour. There was but a few years' difference between their ages, and the suggestion, so promptly made, seemed to show the king that the young Englishman was a kindred spirit, and he frequently requested him to accompany him in his rides, and chatted familiarly with him. "I hate this inactive life," he said one day, "and would, a thousand times, rather be fighting the Russians than setting the Poles by the ears; but I dare not move against them, for, were Augustus of Saxony left alone, he would ere long set all Poland against me. At present, the Poles refuse to allow him to bring in reinforcements from his own country; but if he cannot get men he can get gold, and with gold he can buy over his chief opponents, and regain his power. If it costs me a year's delay, I must wait until he is forced to fly the kingdom, and I can place on the throne someone who will owe his election entirely to me, and in whose good faith I can be secure. "That done, I can turn my attention to Russia, which, by all accounts, daily becomes more formidable. Narva is besieged by them, and will ere long fall; but I can retake Narva when once I can depend upon the neutrality of the Poles. Would I were king of Poland as well as of Sweden. With eighty thousand Polish horse, and my own Swedish infantry, I could conquer Europe if I wished to do so. "I know that you are as fond of adventure as I am, and I am thinking of sending you with an envoy I am despatching to Warsaw. "You know that the Poles are adverse to business of all kinds. The poorest noble, who can scarcely pay for the cloak he wears, and who is ready enough to sell his vote and his sword to the highest bidder, will turn up his nose at honest trade; and the consequence is, as there is no class between the noble and the peasant, the trade of the country is wholly in the hands of Jews and foreigners, among the latter being, I hear, many Scotchmen, who, while they make excellent soldiers, are also keen traders. This class must have considerable power, in fact, although it be exercised quietly. The Jews are, of course, money lenders as well as traders. Large numbers of these petty nobles must be in their debt, either for money lent or goods supplied. "My agent goes specially charged to deal with the archbishop, who is quite open to sell his services to me, although he poses as one of the strongest adherents of the Saxons. With him, it is not a question so much of money, as of power. Being a wise man, he sees that Augustus can never retain his position, in the face of the enmity of the great body of the Poles, and of my hostility. But, while my agent deals with him and such nobles as he indicates as being likely to take my part against Augustus, you could ascertain the feeling of the trading class, and endeavour to induce them, not only to favour me, but to exert all the influence they possess on my behalf. As there are many Scotch merchants in the city, you could begin by making yourself known to them, taking with you letters of introduction from your colonel, and any other Scotch gentleman whom you may find to have acquaintanceship, if not with the men themselves, with their families in Scotland. I do not, of course, say that the mission will be without danger, but that will, I know, be an advantage in your eyes. What do you think of the proposal?" "I do not know, sire," Charlie said doubtfully. "I have no experience whatever in matters of that kind." "This will be a good opportunity for you to serve an apprenticeship," the king said decidedly. "There is no chance of anything being done here, for months, and as you will have no opportunity of using your sword, you cannot be better employed than in polishing up your wits. I will speak to Colonel Jamieson about it this evening. Count Piper will give you full instructions, and will obtain for you, from some of our friends, lists of the names of the men who would be likely to be most useful to us. You will please to remember that the brain does a great deal more than the sword, in enabling a man to rise above his fellows. You are a brave young officer, but I have many a score of brave young officers, and it was your quick wit, in suggesting the strategy by which we crossed the Dwina without loss, that has marked you out from among others, and made me see that you are fit for something better than getting your throat cut." The king then changed the subject with his usual abruptness, and dismissed Charlie, at the end of his ride, without any further allusion to the subject. The young fellow, however, knew enough of the king's headstrong disposition to be aware that the matter was settled, and that he could not, without incurring the king's serious displeasure, decline to accept the commission. He walked back, with a serious face, to the hut that the officers of the company occupied, and asked Harry Jervoise to come out to him. "What is it, Charlie?" his friend said. "Has his gracious majesty been blowing you up, or has your horse broken its knees?" "A much worse thing than either, Harry. The king appears to have taken into his head that I am cut out for a diplomatist;" and he then repeated to his friend the conversation the king had had with him. Harry burst into a shout of laughter. "Don't be angry, Charlie, but I cannot help it. The idea of your going, in disguise, I suppose, and trying to talk over the Jewish clothiers and cannie Scotch traders, is one of the funniest things I ever heard. And do you think the king was really in earnest?" "The king is always in earnest," Charlie said in a vexed tone; "and, when he once takes a thing into his head, there is no gainsaying him." "That is true enough, Charlie," Harry said, becoming serious. "Well, I have no doubt you will do it just as well as another, and after all, there will be some fun in it, and you will be in a big city, and likely to have a deal more excitement than will fall to our lot here." "I don't think it will be at all the sort of excitement I should care for, Harry. However, my hope is, that the colonel will be able to dissuade him from the idea." "Well, I don't know that I should wish that if I were in your place, Charlie. Undoubtedly, it is an honour being chosen for such a mission, and it is possible you may get a great deal of credit for it, as the king is always ready to push forward those who do good service. Look how much he thinks of you, because you made that suggestion about getting up a smoke to cover our passage." "I wish I had never made it," Charlie said heartily. "Well, in that case, Charlie, it is likely enough we should not be talking together here, for our loss in crossing the river under fire would have been terrible." "Well, perhaps it is as well as it is," Charlie agreed. "But I did not want to attract his attention. I was very happy as I was, with you all. As for my suggestion about the straw, anyone might have thought of it. I should never have given the matter another moment's consideration, and I should be much better pleased if the king had not done so, either, instead of telling the colonel about it, and the colonel speaking to the officers, and such a ridiculous fuss being made about nothing." "My dear Charlie," Harry said seriously, "you seem to be forgetting that we all came out here, together, to make our fortune, or at any rate to do as well as we could till the Stuarts come to the throne again, and our fathers regain their estates, a matter concerning which, let me tell you, I do not feel by any means so certain as I did in the old days. Then, you know, all our friends were of our way of thinking, and the faith that the Stuarts would return was like a matter of religion, which it was heresy to doubt for an instant. Well, you see, in the year that we have been out here one's eyes have got opened a bit, and I don't feel by any means sanguine that the Stuarts will ever come to the throne of England again, or that our fathers will recover their estates. "You have seen here what good soldiers can do, and how powerless men possessing but little discipline, though perhaps as brave as themselves, are against them. William of Orange has got good soldiers. His Dutch troops are probably quite as good as our best Swedish regiments. They have had plenty of fighting in Ireland and elsewhere, and I doubt whether the Jacobite gentlemen, however numerous, but without training or discipline, could any more make head against them than the masses of Muscovites could against the Swedish battalions at Narva. All this means that it is necessary that we should, if possible, carve out a fortune here. So far, I certainly have no reason to grumble. On the contrary, I have had great luck. I am a lieutenant at seventeen, and, if I am not shot or carried off by fever, I may, suppose the war goes on and the army is not reduced, be a colonel at the age of forty. "Now you, on the other hand, have, by that happy suggestion of yours, attracted the notice of the king, and he is pleased to nominate you to a mission in which there is a chance of your distinguishing yourself in another way, and of being employed in other and more important business. All this will place you much farther on the road towards making a fortune, than marching and fighting with your company would be likely to do in the course of twenty years, and I think it would be foolish in the extreme for you to exhibit any disinclination to undertake the duty." "I suppose you are right, Harry, and I am much obliged to you for your advice, which certainly puts the matter in a light in which I had not before seen it. If I thought that I could do it well, I should not so much mind, for, as you say, there will be some fun to be got out of it, and some excitement, and there seems little chance of doing anything here for a long time. But what am I to say to the fellows? How can I argue with them? Besides, I don't talk Polish." "I don't suppose there are ten men in the army who do so, probably not five. As to what to say, Count Piper will no doubt give you full instructions as to the line you are to take, the arguments you are to use, and the inducements you are to hold out. That is sure to be all right." "Well, do not say anything about it, Harry, when you get back. I still hope the colonel will dissuade the king." "Then you are singularly hopeful, Charlie, that is all I can say. You might persuade a brick wall to move out of your way, as easily as induce the King of Sweden to give up a plan he has once formed. However, I will say nothing about it." At nine o'clock, an orderly came to the hut with a message that the colonel wished to speak to Lieutenant Carstairs. Harry gave his friend a comical look, as the latter rose and buckled on his sword. "What is the joke, Harry?" his father asked, when Charlie had left. "Do you know what the colonel can want him for, at this time of the evening? It is not his turn for duty." "I know, father; but I must not say." "The lad has not been getting into a scrape, I hope?" "Nothing serious, I can assure you; but really, I must not say anything until he comes back." Harry's positive assurance, as to the impossibility of changing the king's decision, had pretty well dispelled any hopes Charlie might before have entertained, and he entered the colonel's room with a grave face. "You know why I have sent for you, Carstairs?" "Yes, sir; I am afraid that I do." "Afraid? That is to say, you don't like it." "Yes, sir; I own that I don't like it." "Nor do I, lad, and I told his majesty so. I said you were too young for so risky a business. The king scoffed at the idea. He said, 'He is not much more than two years younger than I am, and if I am old enough to command an army, he is old enough to carry out this mission. We know that he is courageous. He is cool, sharp, and intelligent. Why do I choose him? Has he not saved me from the loss of about four or five thousand men, and probably a total defeat? A young fellow who can do that, ought to be able to cope with Jewish traders, and to throw dust in the eyes of the Poles. "I have chosen him for this service for two reasons. In the first place, because I know he will do it well, and even those who consider that I am rash and headstrong, admit that I have the knack of picking out good men. In the next place, I want to reward him for the service he has done for us. I cannot, at his age, make a colonel of him, but I can give him a chance of distinguishing himself in a service in which age does not count for so much, and Count Piper, knowing my wishes in the matter, will push him forward. Moreover, in such a mission as this, his youth will be an advantage, for he is very much less likely to excite suspicion than if he were an older man.' "The king's manner did not admit of argument, and I had only to wait and ask what were his commands. These were simply that you are to call upon his minister tomorrow, and that you would then receive full instructions. "The king means well by you, lad, and on turning it over, I think better of the plan than I did before. I am convinced, at any rate, that you will do credit to the king's choice." "I will do my best, sir," Charlie said. "At present, it all seems so vague to me that I can form no idea whatever as to what it will be like. I am sure that the king's intentions are, at any rate, kind. I am glad to hear you say that, on consideration, you think better of the plan. Then I may mention the matter to Major Jervoise?" "Certainly, Carstairs, and to his son, but it must go no farther. I shall put your name in orders, as relieved from duty, and shall mention that you have been despatched on service, which might mean anything. Come and see me tomorrow, lad, after you have received Count Piper's instructions. As the king reminded me, there are many Scotchmen at Warsaw, and it is likely that some of them passed through Sweden on the way to establish themselves there, and I may very well have made their acquaintance at Gottenburg or Stockholm. "Once established in the house of one of my countrymen, your position would be fairly safe and not altogether unpleasant, and you would be certainly far better off than a Swede would be engaged on this mission. The Swedes are, of course, regarded by the Poles as enemies, but, as there is no feeling against Englishmen or Scotchmen, you might pass about unnoticed as one of the family of a Scottish trader there, or as his assistant." "I don't fear its being unpleasant in the least, colonel. Nor do I think anything one way or the other about my safety. I only fear that I shall not be able to carry out properly the mission intrusted to me." "You will do your best, lad, and that is all that can be expected. You have not solicited the post, and as it is none of your choosing, your failure would be the fault of those who have sent you, and not of yourself; but in a matter of this kind there is no such thing as complete failure. When you have to deal with one man you may succeed or you may fail in endeavouring to induce him to act in a certain manner, but when you have to deal with a considerable number of men, some will be willing to accept your proposals, some will not, and the question of success will probably depend upon outside influences and circumstances over which you have no control whatever. I have no fear that it will be a failure. If our party in Poland triumph, or if our army here advances, or if Augustus, finding his position hopeless, leaves the country, the good people of Warsaw will join their voices to those of the majority. If matters go the other way, you may be sure that they will not risk imprisonment, confiscation, and perhaps death, by getting up a revolt on their own account. The king will be perfectly aware of this, and will not expect impossibilities, and there is really no occasion whatever for you to worry yourself on that ground." Upon calling upon Count Piper the next morning, Charlie found that, as the colonel had told him, his mission was a general one. "It will be your duty," the minister said, "to have interviews with as many of the foreign traders and Jews in Warsaw as you can, only going to those to whom you have some sort of introduction from the persons you may first meet, or who are, as far as you can learn from the report of others, ill disposed towards the Saxon party. Here is a letter, stating to all whom it may concern, that you are in the confidence of the King of Sweden, and are authorized to represent him. "In the first place, you can point out to those you see that, should the present situation continue, it will bring grievous evils upon Poland. Proclamations have already been spread broadcast over the country, saying that the king has no quarrel with the people of Poland, but, as their sovereign has, without the slightest provocation, embarked on a war, he must fight against him and his Saxon troops, until they are driven from the country. This you will repeat, and will urge that it will be infinitely better that Poland herself should cast out the man who has embroiled her with Sweden, than that the country should be the scene of a long and sanguinary struggle, in which large districts will necessarily be laid waste, all trade be arrested, and grievous suffering inflicted upon the people at large. "You can say that King Charles has already received promises of support from a large number of nobles, and is most desirous that the people of the large towns, and especially of the capital, should use their influence in his favour. That he has himself no ambition, and no end to serve save to obtain peace and tranquillity for his country, and that it will be free for the people of Poland to elect their own monarch, when once Augustus of Saxony has disappeared from the scene. "In this sealed packet you will find a list of influential citizens. It has been furnished me by one well acquainted with the place. The Jews are to be assured that, in case of a friendly monarch being placed on the throne, Charles will make a treaty with him, insuring freedom of commerce to the two countries, and will also use his friendly endeavours to obtain, from the king and Diet, an enlargement of the privileges that the Jews enjoy. To the foreign merchants you will hold the same language, somewhat altered, to suit their condition and wants. "You are not asking them to organize any public movement, the time has not yet come for that; but simply to throw the weight of their example and influence against the party of the Saxons. Of course our friends in Warsaw have been doing their best to bring round public opinion in the capital to this direction, but the country is so torn by perpetual intrigues, that the trading classes hold aloof altogether from quarrels in which they have no personal interest, and are slow to believe that they can be seriously affected by any changes which will take place. "Our envoy will start tomorrow morning. His mission is an open one. He goes to lay certain complaints, to propose an exchange of prisoners, and to open negotiations for peace. All these are but pretences. His real object is to enter into personal communication with two or three powerful personages, well disposed towards us. "Come again to me this evening, when you have thought the matter over. I shall then be glad to hear any suggestion you may like to make." "There is one thing, sir, that I should like to ask you. It will evidently be of great advantage to me, if I can obtain private letters of introduction to Scotch traders in the city. This I cannot do, unless by mentioning the fact that I am bound for Warsaw. Have I your permission to do so, or is it to be kept a close secret?" "No. I see no objection to your naming it to anyone you can implicitly trust, and who may, as you think, be able to give you such introductions, but you must impress upon them that the matter must be kept a secret. Doubtless the Saxons have in their pay people in our camp, just as we have in theirs, and were word of your going sent, you would find yourself watched, and perhaps arrested. We should, of course wish you to be zealous in your mission, but I would say, do not be over anxious. We are not trying to get up a revolution in Warsaw, but seeking to ensure that the feeling in the city should be in our favour; and this, we think, may be brought about, to some extent, by such assurances as you can give of the king's friendship, and by such expressions of a belief in the justice of our cause, and in the advantages there would be in getting rid of this foreign prince, as might be said openly by one trader to another, when men meet in their exchanges or upon the street. So that the ball is once set rolling, it may be trusted to keep in motion, and there can be little doubt that such expressions of feeling, among the mercantile community of the capital, will have some effect even upon nobles who pretend to despise trade, but who are not unfrequently in debt to traders, and who hold their views in a certain respect." "Thank you, sir. At what time shall I come this evening?" "At eight o'clock. By that time, I may have thought out farther details for your guidance." Chapter 9: In Warsaw. Upon leaving the quarters of Count Piper, Charlie returned to the camp, and, after discussing the matter with Major Jervoise, proceeded with him to the colonel's hut. "Well, you look brighter this morning, Carstairs. Are you better pleased, now you have thought the matter over?" "Yes, sir. What you said last night has been quite confirmed by Count Piper, and the matter does not really seem so difficult. I am merely, as a foreigner in the employment of the King of Sweden, to talk with foreigners in Warsaw, to assure them that the king is sincere in his desire to avoid war with Poland, and will gladly make a lasting peace between the two countries, to urge upon them to show themselves favourable to his project for securing such a peace, by forcing Augustus to resign the crown, and to use what influence they can in that direction, both upon their fellow traders and upon the Poles." "There is nothing very difficult about that," Colonel Jamieson said cheerfully, "as it happens to be quite true; and there can be no real question as to the true interest of Poland, and especially of the trading classes in the great towns, from whom heavy contributions towards the expenses of war are always exacted by their own rulers, and who have to pay a ruinous ransom in case of their city being captured by the enemy. The traders of Warsaw will need no reminder of such well-known facts, and will be only too glad to be assured that, unless as a last resource, our king has no intention of making war upon Poland, and they will certainly be inclined to bestir themselves to avert such a possibility. You have, I suppose, a list of names of the people with whom you had best put yourself into communication?" "Yes, sir. Here is a list. There are, I see, ten Scotchmen, fifteen Frenchmen, and about as many Jews." "I know nothing of the Frenchmen, and less of the Jews," the colonel said, taking the list; "but I ought to know some of the Scotchmen. They will hail from Dundee and Glasgow, and, it may be, Dumfries." He ran his eye down the list. "Aha! Here is one, and we need go no further. Allan Ramsay; we were lads together at the High School of Glasgow, and were classmates at the College. His father was a member of the city council, and was one of the leading traders in the city. Allan was a wild lad, as I was myself, and many a scrape did we get into together, and had many a skirmish with the watch. Allan had two or three half brothers, men from ten to twenty years older than himself, and, a year or two after I came out to Sweden and entered the army as an ensign, who should I meet in the streets of Gottenburg, but Allan Ramsay. "We were delighted to see each other, and he stopped with me nearly a week. He had, after leaving the College, gone into his father's business, but when the old man died he could not get on with his half brothers, who were dour men, and had little patience with Allan's restlessness and love of pleasure. So, after a final quarrel, they had given him so much money for his share of the business, and a letter of introduction to a trader in Poland, who had written to them saying that he wanted a partner with some capital; and Allan was willing enough to try the life in a strange country, for he was a shrewd fellow, with all his love of fun. "Five years afterwards, he came through Gottenburg again. I did not see him, for my regiment was at Stockholm at the time, but he wrote me a letter saying that he had been in Scotland to marry and bring back one Janet Black, the daughter of a mercer, whom I remember well enough as an old flame of his. "He reported that he was doing well, and that the Poles were not bad fellows to live among, though less punctual in their payments than might be wished. He said he did not suppose that, as a Swedish officer, I should ever be in Poland, unless Sweden produced another Gustavus Adolphus; but if I was, he would be delighted to welcome me, and that anyone I asked in Warsaw would direct me to his shop. I wonder that I did not think of him before; but that is ten years ago, and it had altogether passed out of my mind, till I saw his name here. Unless he is greatly changed, you may be sure of a hearty welcome from Allan Ramsay, for my sake. We need not trouble about the other names. He will know all about them, and will be able to put you in the way of getting at them." This was a great relief to Charlie, who felt that it would be an immense advantage to have the house of someone, from whom he might expect a welcome, to go to on his arrival in Warsaw; and he was able, during the day, to talk over the prospects of the journey, with Harry Jervoise, with a real sense of interest and excitement in his mission. In the evening, he again went to the house of the minister. The latter, a close observer of men, saw at once that the young officer was in much better spirits than he had been in the morning. "Have you obtained information respecting any of the persons whose names I gave you?" he asked. "Yes, sir. It seems that, most fortunately, the trader named Allan Ramsay is an old friend of Colonel Jamieson, and the colonel has given me a letter to him which will, he assures me, procure me a hearty welcome." "And have you thought anything more of your best plan of action?" "Yes, sir. It seems to me that I had better dress myself in an attire such as might be worn by a young Scotchman, journeying through the country to place himself with a relation established in business. I could ride behind the royal envoy, as if I had received permission to journey under the protection of his escort, and could drop behind a few miles from the capital, and make my way in alone. I could not, of course, inquire for Allan Ramsay in Polish, but I know enough French to ask for him at any shop having a French name over it, if I did not happen to light upon one kept by a Scotchman." "Yes, that plan will do very well. But you will have no difficulty in finding the house, as I have arranged that a man shall accompany you as servant. He is a Lithuanian, and is the grandson of a soldier of Gustavus Adolphus, who married and settled there. His grandfather kept up his connection with his native country, and the young fellow speaks Swedish fairly, and, of course, Polish. For the last three weeks I have employed him in various matters, and find him shrewd and, I believe, faithful. Such a fellow would be of great use to you, and could, if necessary, act as your interpreter in any interviews you may have with Polish Jews, although you will find that most of these men speak other languages besides their own." He touched a bell, and on a servant entering, said: "Bring Stanislas Bistron here." An active, well-built young fellow of some four and twenty years of age entered the room a minute later. His fair hair and blue eyes showed that he took after his Swedish ancestors. "This is the gentleman, Stanislas, that you are to accompany to Warsaw, as his servant. You will obey him, in all respects, as if he had hired you in his service, and, should he arrive at any situation of danger or difficulty, I trust that you will not be found wanting." The man had looked closely at Charlie. "I will do my best, sir, and I doubt not that the gentleman's service will suit me. He has the look of one who would be kind to his servants." "Wait at the outside door," the count said. "Captain Carstairs will speak to you as he leaves." The man bowed and went out, and the count then said, with a smile at the look of surprise on Charlie's face: "It was not a slip of the tongue. Here is a commission, signed by his majesty, appointing you to the rank of captain, as he has long considered that you had well won your promotion, by your suggestion which enabled him to cross the Dwina without loss; but he thought there would be a difficulty in placing you over the heads of so many officers senior to yourself. This inconvenience no longer exists, now that you have what may be considered a staff appointment, and the rank may, moreover, add to your weight and influence in your interviews with persons at Warsaw. "You will need money. Here is a purse for your expenses. You may meet with some of these men, especially among the Jewish traders, who may need a bribe. Bribery is common, from the highest to the lowest, in Poland. You will find, in this letter of instructions, that you are authorized to promise sums of money to men whose assistance may be valuable. It is impossible to fix the sums. These must depend upon the position of the men, and the value of their services; and I can only say do not be lavish, but at the same time do not hesitate to promise a sum that will secure the services of useful men. Your best plan will be to find out, if you are able, what each man expects, and to make what abatement you can. The only limit placed is that you must not commit the royal treasury to a total sum exceeding ten thousand crowns. You will, I hope, find a smaller sum suffice. "The envoy will start at six tomorrow morning. I do not know that there are any further instructions to give you. You will find details, in these written instructions, as to the manner in which you are to communicate, from time to time, the result of your mission, and you will receive orders when to return." Outside the house, Charlie saw his new servant waiting him. "You have a horse, Stanislas?" "Yes, sir, I have been provided with one. I have also a brace of pistols, and a sword." "I hope you will not have to use them, but in these disturbed times they are necessaries." "I have better clothes than these, sir, if you wish me to look gay." "By no means," Charlie replied. "I am going in the character of a young Scotchman, on my way to join a relative in business in Warsaw, and you accompany me in the capacity of guide and servant. As I should not be in a position to pay high wages, the more humble your appearance, the better. We start at six in the morning. The envoy will leave the royal quarters at that hour, and we travel with his escort. Join me a quarter of an hour before that at my hut. You had better accompany me there now, so that you may know the spot. I shall not require your services before we start, as my soldier servant will saddle my horse, and have all in readiness." Harry came to the door of the hut, as he saw his friend approaching. "Well, Charlie, is all satisfactorily settled? "Yes, quite satisfactorily, I think. That is my new servant. Count Piper has appointed him. He speaks Swedish and Polish." "That will be a great comfort to you, Charlie. Jock Armstrong, who has not picked up ten words of Swedish since he joined, would have been worse than useless." "I have another piece of news, Harry, that I am in one way very glad of, and in another sorry for. I had always hoped that we should keep together, and that, just as we joined together, and were made lieutenants at the same time, it would always be so." "You have got another step?" Harry exclaimed. "I am heartily glad of it. I thought very likely you might get it. Indeed, I was surprised that you did not get it, at once, after our fight with the Saxons. I am sure you deserved it, if ever a fellow did, considering what it saved us all." "Of course it is for that," Charlie replied, "though I think it is very absurd. Count Piper said the king would have given it to me at once, only it would have taken me over the heads of so many men older than myself; but he considered that, now I am going on a sort of staff work, away from the regiment, I could be promoted, and he thought, too, that the title of Captain would assist me in my mission." "Of course it will," Harry said, warmly. "That is just what I told you, you know. This business was not quite to your liking, but it was a good long step towards making your fortune. Don't you think that I shall be jealous of your going ahead, for I am not in the least. I am sorry you are going away, for I shall miss you terribly; but I am quite content to be with the regiment, and to work my way up gradually. As it is, I am senior lieutenant in the regiment, and the first battle may give me my company; though I don't expect it, for I do not think my father would wish the colonel to give me the step, if it occurred, for all the other lieutenants are older than we are, though they are junior to us in the regiment, and I feel sure that he would prefer me to remain for another two or three years as lieutenant. In fact, he said as much to me, a short time ago. Still, when I am fit to command a company, there is no doubt I shall get it. "Of course, I am sorry you are going, very sorry, Charlie; but, even if you go altogether on to the staff, I shall see a good deal of you, for, as the king is always with the army, this must be your headquarters still. "I wonder how long you will be away. I like the look of the fellow who is going with you. It was an honest, open sort of face, as far as I saw it. At any rate, it is a comfort to think that you won't be absolutely alone, especially among people whose language you don't know. Mind, if you are sending letters to Count Piper, be sure you send a few lines, by the same messenger, to let me know how you are going on. Not long letters, you know; I expect you will have your hands pretty well full; but just enough to give me an idea of how you are, and what you are doing." The following morning, Charlie started. He had said goodbye to no one, except the colonel, Major Jervoise, and Harry, as it was not considered advisable that his departure with the envoy for Warsaw should be talked about. He only joined the party, indeed, after they had ridden out of the camp. He had laid aside his uniform, and was dressed in clothes which Major Jervoise had procured for him, from one of the last-joined recruits who had but just received his uniform. The lieutenant commanding the escort of twenty troopers rode up to him, as he joined the party. "Baron Seckers informs me that he has given permission to a young Scotchman and his servant, travelling to Warsaw, to ride under his protection. Are you the person in question, sir?" "It is all right, Lieutenant Eberstein," Charlie said, with a smile. "Don't you recognize me?" "Of course--Lieutenant Carstairs. I was at the hunt where you were taken prisoner; but I did not expect to see you in this garb." "I am going on duty," Charlie said, "and am dressed according to orders. Do not address me by my name. I am at present Sandy Anderson, going to join a relation in Warsaw." "Ah, ah! Is that so? Going to put your head into the den of the Lion Augustus. Well, I rather envy you, for it is likely, by all accounts, to be dull work here for some time. It is hard to be sitting idle, while the Russian guns are thundering round Narva. Now, I must join the baron again. Where would you rather ride--after us, or behind the escort?" "Behind the escort. I think it will be more natural, and I can chat more freely with my servant. He is a Lithuanian, but speaks Swedish, and I hope to get some information from him." The lieutenant rode on, and, as he passed the troopers, he told them that the two men behind had the baron's permission to ride with them, in order that they might have protection from the bands of pillagers who were roaming through the country. "Now, Stanislas," Charlie said. "We can talk freely together. Do you know Warsaw?" "I have been there several times, sir, but I never stopped there long. Still, I can find my way about the town." "When were you there last?" "Some two months ago. It was just before I entered the Swedish service." "And what do the people say about the war?" "They are bitterly opposed to it. The king entered upon it without consulting the diet, which was altogether contrary to the constitution. It is true that the king may do so, in cases of emergency, and obtain the sanction of the diet afterwards. There was no urgency here, and the king made his agreement with the czar and the king of Denmark without anyone knowing of it. He certainly obtained a sort of sanction from the diet afterwards, but everyone knows how these things are worked. He has a strong party, of course, because it is the interest of a great many people to retain him in power, as no one can say who would be chosen to succeed him. But among the people in general, the traders and the peasants, he is hated, and so are his Saxon soldiers. "Suppose he had gained a slice of Swedish territory. It would not have benefited them; while, as it is, all sorts of misfortunes and troubles have come upon the country, and none can say how much greater may ensue. "Poland is always split up into parties. They used to unite against the Turk, and they would unite again against the Swedes, if their country was invaded; but as long as King Charles keeps his army beyond the frontier, they are too deeply engaged in their own quarrels to think of anything else." "Then, even if I were known, in the city, to be in the Swedish service, there would be little danger, Stanislas?" "I do not say that, at all," the man said gravely. "In the first place, Warsaw is held by Saxon soldiers, who would show you but scant mercy, were you known to be a Swedish officer; and, in the second place, the lower classes are ever ready to make tumults; and, if worked upon by the archbishop, or the nobles of the king's party, they would readily enough tear a stranger to pieces. "Going as you do as a Scotchman, there is, I hope, little danger, especially if you are received into a Scottish household." The journey passed without incident, until they were within a few miles of Warsaw, when Charlie, after formally thanking Baron Seckers for the protection his escort had afforded him, fell behind with his servant. Several parties of armed men had been met with, but they knew better than to interfere with the little body of Swedish cavalry; while, in the towns through which they passed, the baron was respectfully received as the envoy of the dreaded King of Sweden. "Is there another gate to the city, on this side of the town, beside that by which the Swedes will enter? If so, it would be as well to use it, so that there should seem to be no connection between us and them," said Charlie. There was another gate, and by this they rode into Warsaw, at that time a city of far greater importance than it is at present. The gate was unguarded, and they passed through without question. The citizens were talking excitedly in groups, evidently discussing the question of the arrival of the Swedish envoy, and the chances of peace; and no attention was paid to the travellers, whose appearance denoted them to be persons of no importance. Richly-attired nobles, in costumes of almost oriental magnificence, galloped through the streets on splendid horses, scattering the groups of citizens, and paying no attention whatever to the angry murmurs that followed them. Charlie stopped at a small inn, and there the horses were put up. Stanislas made inquiries for the shop of Allan Ramsay, mentioning that his employer was a relation of the Scottish merchant, and had come out to be with him, until he had learned the language. "The Scots know their business," the landlord grumbled. "They and the French and the Jews, together, have their hand in everyone's pocket. They buy the cattle and grain of the peasants, for what they choose to give for them, and send them out of the country, getting all the profits of the transaction; while, as to the nobles, there is scarce one who is not deep in their books." "Still, you could not do without them," Stanislas said. "There must be somebody to buy and to sell, and as the nobles won't do it, and the peasants can't, I don't see that the foreigners are to be blamed for coming in and taking the trade." "That is true enough," the landlord admitted reluctantly. "Still, there is no doubt the country is kept poor, while, between them, these men gather up the harvest." "Better that than let it rot upon the ground," Stanislas said unconcernedly; and then, having obtained the name of the street where several of the Scottish traders had places of business, he and Charlie started on foot. They were not long in finding the shop with the sign of the merchant swinging over the door. "You had better wait outside, Stanislas, while I go in and see the master. No; if he is not in the shop, his men will not understand me, so come in with me till you see that I have met him, and then go back to the inn for the night. Whether I join you there will depend upon the warmth of my welcome." Two or three young Poles were in the shop. Stanislas asked them for Allan Ramsay, and they replied that he was taking his evening meal upstairs, whereupon Charlie produced the letter from Colonel Jamieson, and Stanislas requested one of them to take it up to the merchant. Three minutes later the inner door opened, and a tall man with a ruddy face and blue eyes entered, holding the open letter in his hand. Charlie took a step forward to meet him. "So you are Sandy Anderson," he said heartily, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "my connection, it seems, and the friend of my dear classmate Jamieson? Come upstairs. Who is this Scotch-looking lad with you?" "He is my servant and interpreter. His grandfather was a Swede, and to him he owes his fair hair and complexion. He is a Lithuanian. He is to be trusted, I hope, thoroughly. He was sent with me by--" "Never mind names," the Scotchman said hastily. "We will talk about him afterwards. Now come upstairs. Your letter has thrown me quite into a flutter. "Never say anything in English before those Poles," he said, as he left the shop; "the fellows pick up languages as easily as I can drink whisky, when I get the chance. One of them has been with me two years, and it is quite likely he understands, at any rate, something of what is said. "Here we are." He opened a door, and ushered Charlie into a large room, comfortably furnished. His wife, a boy eight years of age, and a girl a year older, were seated at the table. "Janet," the merchant said, "this is Captain Carstairs, alias Sandy Anderson, a connection of ours, though I cannot say, for certain, of what degree." "What are you talking of, Allan?" she asked in surprise; for her husband, after opening and partly reading the letter, had jumped up and run off without saying a word. "What I say, wife. This gentleman is, for the present, Sandy Anderson, who has come out to learn the business and language, with the intent of some day entering into partnership with me; also, which is more to the point, he is a friend of my good friend Jock Jamieson, whom you remember well in the old days." "I am very glad, indeed, to see any friend of Jock Jamieson," Janet Ramsay said warmly, holding out her hand to Charlie, "though I do not in the least understand what my husband is talking about, or what your name really is." "My name is Carstairs, madam. I am a captain in the Swedish service, and am here on a mission for King Charles. Colonel Jamieson, for he is now colonel of the regiment to which I belong--" "What!" the merchant exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that our Jock Jamieson is a colonel? Well, well, who would have thought he would have climbed the tree so quickly?" "It is a regiment entirely of Scotch and Englishmen," Charlie said; "and he was promoted, to take its command, only a short time since." "Well, please to sit down and join us," Mrs. Ramsay said. "It is bad manners, indeed, to keep you talking while the meat is getting cold on the table. When you have finished, it will be time enough to question you." While the meal was going on, however, many questions were asked as to Colonel Jamieson, the regiment, and its officers. "As soon as matters are more settled," the merchant said, "I will give myself a holiday, and Janet and I will go and spend a few days with Jock. Many of the names of the officers are well known to me, and two or three of the captains were at Glasgow College with Jock and myself. It will be like old times, to have four or five of us talking over the wild doings we had together." The supper over, the children were sent off to bed. Allan Ramsay lit a long pipe. A bottle of wine and two glasses were placed on the table, and Mrs. Ramsay withdrew, to see after domestic matters, and prepare a room for Charlie. "Now, lad, tell me all about it," Allan Ramsay said. "Jock tells me you are here on a mission, which he would leave it to yourself to explain; but it is no business of mine, and, if you would rather keep it to yourself, I will ask no questions." "There is no secret about it, as far as you are concerned, Mr. Ramsay, for it is to you and to other merchants here that I have come to talk it over;" and he then went fully into the subject. The Scotchman sat, smoking his pipe in silence, for some minutes after he had concluded. "We do not much meddle with politics here. We have neither voice nor part in the making of kings or of laws, and, beyond that we like to have a peace-loving king, it matters little to us whom the diet may set up over us. If we were once to put the tips of our fingers into Polish affairs, we might give up all thought of trade. They are forever intriguing and plotting, except when they are fighting; and it would be weary work to keep touch with it all, much less to take part in it. It is our business to buy and to sell, and so that both parties come to us, it matters little; one's money is as good as the other. If I had one set of creditors deeper in my books than another, I might wish their party to gain the day, for it would, maybe, set them up in funds, and I might get my money; but, as it is, it matters little. There is not a customer I have but is in my debt. Money is always scarce with them; for they are reckless and extravagant, keeping a horde of idle loons about them, spending as much money on their own attire and that of their wives as would keep a whole Scotch clan in victuals. But, if they cannot pay in money, they can pay in corn or in cattle, in wine or in hides. "I do not know which they are fondest of--plotting, or fighting, or feasting; and yet, reckless as they are, they are people to like. If they do sell their votes for money, it is not a Scotchman that should throw it in their teeth; for there is scarce a Scotch noble, since the days of Bruce, who has not been ready to sell himself for English gold. Our own Highlanders are as fond of fighting as the Poles, and their chiefs are as profuse in hospitality, and as reckless and spendthrift. "But the Poles have their virtues. They love their country, and are ready to die for her. They are courteous, and even chivalrous, they are hospitable to an excess, they are good husbands and kindly masters, they are recklessly brave; and, if they are unduly fond of finery, I, who supply so many of them, should be the last to find fault with them on that score. They are proud, and look down upon us traders, but that does not hurt us; and, if they were to take to trading themselves, there would be no place for us here. But this has nothing to do with our present purpose. "Certainly, if it was a question of Polish affairs, neither the foreign nor the Jewish merchants here would move a finger one way or the other. We have everything to lose, and nothing to gain. Suppose we took sides with one of the parties, and the other got the upper hand. Why, they might make ordinances hampering us in every way, laying heavy taxes on us, forbidding the export of cattle or horses, and making our lives burdensome. True, if they drove us out they would soon have to repeal the law, for all trade would be at an end. But that would be too late for many of us. "However, I do not say that, at the present time, many would not be disposed to do what they could against Augustus of Saxony. We are accustomed to civil wars; and, though these may cause misery and ruin, in the districts where they take place, they do not touch us here in the capital. But this is a different affair. Augustus has, without reason or provocation, brought down your fiery King of Sweden upon us; and, if he continues on the throne, we may hear the Swedish cannon thundering outside our walls, and may have the city taken and sacked. Therefore, for once, politics become our natural business. "But, though you may find many well wishers, I doubt if you can obtain any substantial aid. With Saxon troops in the town, and the nobles divided, there is no hope of a successful rising in Warsaw." "The king did not think of that," Charlie said. "His opinion was, that were it evident that the citizens of Warsaw were strongly opposed to Augustus of Saxony, it would have a great moral effect, and that, perhaps, they might influence some of the nobles who, as you say, are deeply in their books, or upon whose estates they may hold mortgages, to join the party against the king." "They might do something that way," Allan Ramsay agreed. "Of course, I have no money out on mortgages. I want badly enough all the money I can lay hands on in my own business. Giving credit, as we have to, and often very long credit, it requires a large capital to carry on trade. But the Jews, who no doubt do hold large mortgages on the land, cannot exert much power. They cannot hold land themselves, and, were one of them to venture to sell the property of any noble of influence, he would be ruined. The whole class would shrink from him, and, like enough, there would be a tumult got up, his house would be burned over his head, and he and his family murdered. "Still, as far as popular opinion goes, something might be done. At any rate, I will get some of my friends here tomorrow, and introduce you to them and talk it over. But we must be careful, for Augustus has a strong party here, and, were it suspected that you are a Swedish officer, it would go very hard with you. "Tomorrow you must fetch your servant here. I have already sent round to the inn, and you will find your valises in your room. You said you could rely thoroughly upon him?" "Yes, he was handed over to me by Count Piper himself; and moreover, from what I have seen of him, I am myself confident that he can be trusted. He is of Swedish descent, and is, I think, a very honest fellow." For a fortnight, Charlie remained at Allan Ramsay's, and then, in spite of the pressing entreaties of his host and hostess, took a lodging near them. He had, by this time, seen a good many of the leading traders of the town. The Scotch and Frenchmen had all heartily agreed with his argument, that it was for the benefit of Poland, and especially for that of Warsaw, that Augustus of Saxony should be replaced by another king, who would be acceptable to Charles of Sweden; but all were of opinion that but little could be done, by them, towards bringing about this result. With the Jewish traders his success was less decided. They admitted that it would be a great misfortune, were Warsaw taken by the Swedes, but, as Poles, they retained their confidence in the national army, and were altogether sceptical that a few thousand Swedes could withstand the host that could be put in the field against them. Several of them pointedly asked what interest they had in the matter, and, to some of these, Charlie was obliged to use his power of promising sums of money, in case of success. There were one or two, however, of whom he felt doubtful. Chief among these was Ben Soloman Muller, a man of great influence in the Jewish community. This man had placed so large a value upon his services, that Charlie did not feel justified in promising him such a sum. He did not like the man's face, and did not rely upon the promises of silence he had given, before the mission was revealed to him. It was for this reason, principally, that he determined to go into lodgings. Should he be denounced, serious trouble might fall upon Allan Ramsay, and it would at least minimize this risk, were he not living at his house when he was arrested. Ramsay himself was disposed to make light of the danger. "I believe myself that Ben Soloman is an old rogue, but he is not a fool. He cannot help seeing that the position of the king is precarious, and, were he to cause your arrest, he might get little thanks and no profit, while he would be incurring the risk of the vengeance of Charles, should he ever become master of the town. Did he have you arrested, he himself would be forced to appear as a witness against you, and this he could hardly do without the matter becoming publicly known. "I do not say, however, that, if he could curry favour with the king's party by doing you harm, without appearing in the matter, he would hesitate for a moment. "Even if you were arrested here, I doubt whether any great harm would befall me, for all the Scotch merchants would make common cause with me, and, although we have no political power, we have a good deal of influence one way or another, and Augustus, at this time, would not care to make fresh enemies. However, lad, I will not further dispute your decision. Were I quite alone, I would not let you leave me, so long as you stop in this city, without taking great offence; but, with a wife and two children, a man is more timid than if he had but himself to think of." Charlie therefore moved into the lodging, but every day he went for three or four hours to the shop, where he kept up his assumed character by aiding to keep the ledgers, and in learning from the Polish assistants the value of the various goods in the shop. One evening, he was returning after supper to his lodging, when Stanislas met him. "I observed three or four evil-looking rascals casting glances at the house today, and there are several rough-looking fellows hanging about the house this evening. I do not know if it means anything, but I thought I would let you know." "I think it must be only your fancy, Stanislas. I might be arrested by the troops, were I denounced, but I apprehend no danger from men of the class you speak of. However, if we should be interfered with, I fancy we could deal with several rascals of that sort." At the corner of his street, three or four men were standing. One of them moved, as he passed, and pushed rudely against him, sending his hat into the gutter. Then, as his face was exposed, the fellow exclaimed: "It is he, death to the Swedish spy!" They were the last words he uttered. Charlie's sword flew from its scabbard, and, with a rapid pass, he ran the man through the body. The others drew instantly, and fell upon Charlie with fury, keeping up the shout of, "Death to the Swedish spy!" It was evidently a signal--for men darted out of doorways, and came running down the street, repeating the cry. "Go, Stanislas!" Charlie shouted, as he defended himself against a dozen assailants. "Tell Ramsay what has happened; you can do no good here." A moment later, he received a tremendous blow on the back of the head, from an iron-bound cudgel, and fell senseless to the ground. Chapter 10: In Evil Plight. When Charlie recovered his senses, he found himself lying bound in a room lighted by a dim lamp, which sufficed only to show that the beams were blackened by smoke and age, and the walls constructed of rough stone work. There was, so far as he could see, no furniture whatever in it, and he imagined that it was an underground cellar, used perhaps, at some time or other, as a storeroom. It was some time before his brain was clear enough to understand what had happened, or how he had got into his present position. Gradually the facts came back to him, and he was able to think coherently, in spite of a splitting headache, and a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. "I was knocked down and stunned," he said to himself, at last. "I wonder what became of Stanislas. I hope he got away. "This does not look like a prison. I should say that it was a cellar, in the house of one of the gang that set upon me. It is evident that someone has betrayed me, probably that Jew, Ben Soloman. What have they brought me here for? I wonder what are they going to do with me." His head, however, hurt him too much for him to continue the strain of thought, and, after a while, he dozed off to sleep. When he awoke, a faint light was streaming in through a slit, two or three inches wide, high up on the wall. He still felt faint and dizzy, from the effects of the blow. Parched with thirst, he tried to call out for water, but scarce a sound came from his lips. Gradually, the room seemed to darken and become indistinct, and he again lapsed into insensibility. When he again became conscious, someone was pouring water between his lips, and he heard a voice speaking loudly and angrily. He had picked up a few words of Polish from Stanislas--the names of common things, the words to use in case he lost his way, how to ask for food and for stabling for a horse, but he was unable to understand what was said. He judged, however, that someone was furiously upbraiding the man who was giving him water, for the latter now and then muttered excuses. "He is blowing the fellow up, for having so nearly let me slip through their fingers," he said to himself. "Probably they want to question me, and find out who I have been in communication with. They shall get nothing, at present, anyhow." He kept his eyes resolutely closed. Presently, he heard a door open, and another man come in. A few words were exchanged, and, this time, wine instead of water was poured down his throat. Then he was partly lifted up, and felt a cooling sensation at the back of his head. Some bandages were passed round it, and he was laid down again. There was some more conversation, then a door opened and two of the men went out; the third walked back to him, muttering angrily to himself. Charlie felt sure that he had been moved from the place in which he had been the evening before. His bonds had been loosed, and he was lying on straw, and not on the bare ground. Opening his eyelids the slightest possible degree, he was confirmed in his belief, by seeing that there was much more light than could have entered the cellar. He dared not look farther, and, in a short time, fell into a far more refreshing sleep than that he before had. The next time he woke his brain was clearer, though there was still a dull sense of pain where he had been struck. Without opening his eyes, he listened attentively. There was some sound of movement in the room, and, presently, he heard a faint regular breathing. This continued for some time, and he then heard a sort of grunt. "He is asleep," he said to himself, and, opening his eyes slightly looked round. He was in another chamber. It was grimy with dirt, and almost as unfurnished as the cellar, but there was a window through which the sun was streaming brightly. He, himself, lay upon a heap of straw. At the opposite side of the room was a similar heap, and upon this a man was sitting, leaning against the wall, with his chin dropped on his chest. The thought of escape at once occurred to Charlie. Could he reach the window, which was without glass and a mere opening in the wall, without awakening his guard, he could drop out and make for Allan Ramsay's. As soon as he tried to move, however, he found that this idea was for the present impracticable. He felt too weak to lift his head, and, at the slight rustle of straw caused by the attempt, the man opposite roused himself with a start. He gave another slight movement, and then again lay quiet with his eyes closed. The man came across and spoke, but he made no sign. Some more wine was poured between his lips, then the man returned to his former position, and all was quiet. As he lay thinking his position over, Charlie thought that those who had set his assailants to their work must have had two objects--the one to put a stop to his efforts to organize an agitation against the king, the second to find out, by questioning him, who were those with whom he had been in communication, in order that they might be arrested, and their property confiscated. He could see no other reason why his life should be spared by his assailants, for it would have been easier, and far less troublesome, to run him through as he lay senseless on the ground, than to carry him off and keep him a prisoner. This idea confirmed the suspicion he had first entertained, that the assault had been organized by Ben Soloman. He could have no real interest in the king, for he was ready to join in the organization against him, could he have obtained his own terms. He might intend to gain credit with the royal party, by claiming to have stopped a dangerous plot, and at the same time to benefit himself, by bringing about the expulsion or death of many of his foreign trade rivals. For this end, the Jew would desire that he should be taken alive, in order to serve as a witness against the others. "He will not get any names from me," he said. "Besides, none of them have promised to take any active measures against Augustus. I did not ask them to do so. There is no high treason in trying to influence public opinion. Still, it is likely enough that the Jew wants to get me to acknowledge that an insurrection was intended, and will offer me my freedom, if I will give such testimony. As I am altogether in his power, the only thing to do is to pretend to be a great deal worse than I am, and so to gain time, till I am strong enough to try to get away from this place." All this was not arrived at, at once, but was the result of half-dreamy cogitation extending over hours, and interrupted by short snatches of sleep. He was conscious that, from time to time, someone came into the room and spoke to his guard; and that, three or four times, wine was poured between his lips. Once he was raised up, and fresh cloths, dipped in water, and bandages applied to his head. In the evening, two or three men came in, and he believed that he recognized the voice of one of them as that of Ben Soloman. One of the men addressed him suddenly and sharply in Swedish. "How are you feeling? Are you in pain? We have come here to give you your freedom." Charlie was on his guard, and remained silent, with his eyes closed. "It is of no use," Ben Soloman said in his own language. "The fellow is still insensible. The clumsy fool who hit him would fare badly, if I knew who he was. I said that he was to be knocked down, silenced, and brought here; and here he is, of no more use than if he were dead." "He will doubtless come round, in time," another said in an apologetic tone. "We will bring him round, if you will have patience, Ben Soloman." "Well, well," the other replied, "a few days will make no difference; but mind that he is well guarded, directly he begins to gain strength. I will get him out of the town, as soon as I can. Allan Ramsay has laid a complaint, before the mayor, that his countryman has been attacked by a band of ruffians, and has been either killed or carried off by them. It is a pity that servant of his was not killed." "We thought he was dead. Two or three of us looked at him, and I could have sworn that life was out of him." "Well, then, you would have sworn what was not true, for he managed to crawl to Ramsay's, where he lies, I am told, dangerously ill, and an official has been to him, to obtain his account of the fray. It was a bungled business, from beginning to end." "We could not have calculated on the fellows making such a resistance," the other grumbled. "This one seemed but a lad, and yet he killed three of our party, and the other killed one. A nice business that; and you will have to pay their friends well, Ben Soloman, for I can tell you there is grumbling at the price, which they say was not enough for the work, which you told them would be easy." "It ought to have been," the Jew said sullenly. "Fifteen or twenty men to overpower a lad. What could have been more easy? However, I will do something for the friends of the men who were fools enough to get themselves killed, but if I hear any grumbling from the others, it will be worse for them; there is not one I could not lay by the heels in jail. "Well, as to this young fellow, I shall not come again. I do not want to be noticed coming here. Keep a shrewd lookout after him." "There is no fear about that," the man said. "It will be long ere he is strong enough to walk." "When he gets better, we will have him taken away to a safe place outside the town. Once there, I can make him say what I like." "And if he does not get well?" "In that case, we will take away his body and bury it outside. I will see to that myself." "I understand," the other sneered. "You don't want anyone to know where it is buried, so as to be able to bring it up against you." "You attend to your own business," the Jew said angrily. "Why should I care about what they say? At any rate, there are some matters between you and me, and there is no fear of your speaking." "Not until the time comes when I may think it worth my while to throw away my life, in order to secure your death, Ben Soloman." "It is of no use talking like that," the Jew said quietly. "We are useful to each other. I have saved your life from the gibbet, you have done the work I required. Between us, it is worse than childish to threaten in the present matter. I do not doubt that you will do your business well, and you know that you will be well paid for it; what can either of us require more?" Charlie would have given a good deal to understand the conversation, and he would have been specially glad to learn that Stanislas had escaped with his life; for he had taken a great fancy to the young Lithuanian, and was grieved by the thought that he had probably lost his life in his defence. Three days passed. His head was now clear, and his appetite returning, and he found, by quietly moving at night, when his guard was asleep, that he was gaining strength. The third day, there was some talking among several men who entered the room; then he was lifted, wrapt up in some cloths, and put into a large box. He felt this being hoisted up, it was carried downstairs, and then placed on something. A minute afterwards he felt a vibration, followed by a swaying and bumping, and guessed at once that he was on a cart, and was being removed, either to prison or to some other place of confinement. The latter he considered more probable. The journey was a long one. He had no means of judging time, but he thought that it must have lasted two or three hours. Then the rumbling ceased, the box was lifted down, and carried a short distance, then the lid was opened and he was again laid down on some straw. He heard the sound of cart wheels, and knew that the vehicle on which he had been brought was being driven away. He was now so hungry that he felt he could no longer maintain the appearance of insensibility. Two men were talking in the room, and when, for a moment, their conversation ceased, he gave a low groan, and then opened his eyes. They came at once to his bedside, with exclamations of satisfaction. "How do you feel?" one asked in Swedish. "I do not know," he said in a low tone. "Where am I, how did I get here?" "You are with friends. Never mind how you got here. You have been ill, but you will soon get well again. Someone hit you on the head, and we picked you up and brought you here." "I am weak and faint," Charlie murmured. "Have you any food?" "You shall have some food, directly it is prepared. Take a drink of wine, and see if you can eat a bit of bread while the broth is preparing." Charlie drank a little of the wine that was put to his lips, and then broke up the bread, and ate it crumb by crumb, as if it were a great effort to do so, although he had difficulty in restraining himself from eating it voraciously. When he had finished it, he closed his eyes again, as if sleep had overpowered him. An hour later, there was a touch on his shoulder. "Here is some broth, young fellow. Wake up and drink that, it will do you good." Charlie, as before, slowly sipped down the broth, and then really fell asleep, for the jolting had fatigued him terribly. It was evening when he awoke. Two men were sitting at a blazing fire. When he moved, one of them brought him another basin of broth, and fed him with a spoon. Charlie had been long enough in the country to know, by the appearance of the room, that he was in a peasant's hut. He wondered why he had been brought there, and concluded that it must be because Allan Ramsay had set so stringent a search on foot in the city, that they considered it necessary to take him away. "They will not keep me here long," he said to himself. "I am sure that I could walk now, and, in another two or three days, I shall be strong enough to go some distance. That soup has done me a deal of good. I believe half my weakness is from hunger." He no longer kept up the appearance of unconsciousness, and, in the morning, put various questions, to the man who spoke Swedish, as to what had happened and how he came to be there. This man was evidently, from his dress and appearance, a Jew, while the other was as unmistakably a peasant, a rough powerfully-built man with an evil face. The Jew gave him but little information, but told him that in a day or two, when he was strong enough to listen, a friend would come who would tell him all about it. On the third day, he heard the sound of an approaching horse, and was not surprised when, after a conversation in a low tone outside, Ben Soloman entered. Charlie was now much stronger, but he had carefully abstained from showing any marked improvement, speaking always in a voice a little above a whisper, and allowing the men to feed him, after making one or two pretended attempts to convey the spoon to his mouth. "Well, Master Englishman," Ben Soloman said, as he came up to his bedside, "what do you think of things?" "I do not know what to think," Charlie said feebly. "I do not know where I am, or why I am here. I remember that there was a fray in the street, and I suppose I was hurt. But why was I brought here, instead of being taken to my lodgings?" "Because you would be no use to me in your lodging, and you may be a great deal of use to me here," Ben Soloman said. "You know you endeavoured to entrap me into a plot against the king's life." Charlie shook his head, and looked wonderingly at the speaker. "No, no," he said, "there was no plot against the king's life. I only asked if you would use your influence among your friends to turn popular feeling against Augustus." "Nothing of the kind," the Jew said harshly. "You wanted him removed by poison or the knife. There is no mistake about that, and that is what I am going to swear, and what, if you want to save your life, you will have to swear too; and you will have to give the names of all concerned in the plot, and to swear that they were all agreed to bring about the death of the king. Now you understand why you were brought here. You are miles away from another house, and you may shout and scream as loud as you like. You are in my power." "I would die rather than make a false accusation." "Listen to me," the Jew said sternly. "You are weak now, too weak to suffer much. This day week I will return, and then you had best change your mind, and sign a document I shall bring with me, with the full particulars of the plot to murder the king, and the names of those concerned in it. This you will sign. I shall take it to the proper authorities, and obtain a promise that your life shall be spared, on condition of your giving evidence against these persons." "I would never sign such a villainous document," Charlie said. "You will sign it," Ben Soloman said calmly. "When you find yourself roasting over a slow charcoal fire, you will be ready to sign anything I wish you to." So saying, he turned and left the room. He talked for some time to the men outside, then Charlie heard him ride off. "You villain," he said to himself. "When you come, at the end of a week, you will not find me here; but, if I get a chance of having a reckoning with you, it will be bad for you." Charlie's progress was apparently slow. The next day he was able to sit up and feed himself. Two days later he could totter across the room, and lie down before the fire. The men were completely deceived by his acting, and, considering any attempt to escape, in his present weak state, altogether impossible, paid but little heed to him, the peasant frequently absenting himself for hours together. Looking from his window, Charlie saw that the hut was situated in a thick wood, and, from the blackened appearance of the peasant's face and garments, he guessed him to be a charcoal burner, and therefore judged that the trees he saw must form part of a forest of considerable extent. The weather was warm, and his other guard often sat, for a while, outside the door. During his absence, Charlie lifted the logs of wood piled beside the hearth, and was able to test his returning strength, assuring himself that, although not yet fully recovered, he was gaining ground daily. He resolved not to wait until the seventh day; for Ben Soloman might change his mind, and return before the day he had named. He determined, therefore, that on the sixth day he would make the attempt. He had no fear of being unable to overcome his Jewish guard, as he would have the advantage of a surprise. He only delayed as long as possible, because he doubted his powers of walking any great distance, and of evading the charcoal burner, who would, on his return, certainly set out in pursuit of him. Moreover, he wished to remain in the hut nearly up to the time of the Jew's return, as he was determined to wait in the forest, and revenge himself for the suffering he had caused him, and for the torture to which he intended to put him. The evening before the day on which he decided to make the attempt, the charcoal burner and the Jew were in earnest conversation. The word signifying brigand was frequently repeated, and, although he could not understand much more than this, he concluded, from the peasant's talk and gestures, that he had either come across some of these men in the forest, or had gathered from signs he had observed, perhaps from their fires, that they were there. The Jew shrugged his shoulders when the narration was finished. The presence of brigands was a matter of indifference to him. The next day, the charcoal burner went off at noon. "Where does he go to?" Charlie asked his guard. "He has got some charcoal fires alight, and is obliged to go and see to them. They have to be kept covered up with wet leaves and earth, so that the wood shall only smoulder," the man said, as he lounged out of the hut to his usual seat. Charlie waited a short time, then went to the pile of logs, and picked out a straight stick about a yard long and two inches in diameter. With one of the heavier ones he could have killed the man, but the fellow was only acting under the orders of his employer, and, although he would doubtless, at Ben Soloman's commands, have roasted him alive without compunction, he had not behaved with any unkindness, and had, indeed, seemed to do his best for him. Taking the stick, he went to the door. He trod lightly, but in the stillness of the forest the man heard him, and glanced round as he came out. Seeing the stick in his hand he leaped up, exclaiming, "You young fool!" and sprang towards him. He had scarce time to feel surprise, as Charlie quickly raised the club. It described a swift sweep, fell full on his head, and he dropped to the ground as if shot. Charlie ran in again, seized a coil of rope, bound his hands and feet securely, and dragged him into the hut. Then he dashed some cold water on his face. The man opened his eyes, and tried to move. "You are too tightly bound to move, Pauloff," he said. "I could have killed you if I had chosen, but I did not wish to. You have not been unkind to me, and I owe you no grudge; but tell your rascally employer that I will be even with him, someday, for the evil he has done me." "You might as well have killed me," the man said, "for he will do so when he finds I let you escape." "Then my advice to you is, be beforehand with him. You are as strong a man as he is, and if I were in your place, and a man who meant to kill me came into a lonely hut like this, I would take precious good care that he had no chance of carrying out his intentions." Charlie then took two loaves of black bread and a portion of goat's flesh from the cupboard; found a bottle about a quarter full of coarse spirits, filled it up with water and put it in his pocket, and then, after taking possession of the long knife his captive wore in his belt, went out of the hut and closed the door behind him. He had purposely moved slowly about the hut, as he made these preparations, in order that the Jew should believe that he was still weak; but, indeed, the effort of dragging the man into the hut had severely taxed his strength, and he found that he was much weaker than he had supposed. The hut stood in a very small clearing, and Charlie had no difficulty in seeing the track by which the cart had come, for the marks of the wheels were still visible in the soft soil. He followed this until, after about two miles' walking, he came to the edge of the wood. Then he retraced his steps for a quarter of a mile, turned off, and with some difficulty made his way into a patch of thick undergrowth, where, after first cutting a formidable cudgel, he lay down, completely exhausted. Late in the afternoon he was aroused from a doze by the sound of footsteps, and, looking through the screen of leaves, he saw his late jailers hurrying along the path. The charcoal burner carried a heavy axe, while the Jew, whose head was bound up with a cloth, had a long knife in his girdle. They went as far as the end of the forest, and then retraced their steps slowly. They were talking loudly, and Charlie could gather, from the few words he understood, and by their gestures, something of the purport of their conversation. "I told you it was of no use your coming on as far as this," the Jew said. "Why, he was hardly strong enough to walk." "He managed to knock you down, and afterwards to drag you into the house," the other said. "It does not require much strength to knock a man down with a heavy club, when he is not expecting it, Conrad. He certainly did drag me in, but he was obliged to sit down afterwards, and I watched him out of one eye as he was making his preparations, and he could only just totter about. I would wager you anything he cannot have gone two hundred yards from the house. That is where we must search for him. I warrant we shall find him hidden in a thicket thereabouts." "We shall have to take a lantern then, for it will be dark before we get back." "Our best plan will be to leave it alone till morning. If we sit outside the hut, and take it in turns to watch, we shall hear him when he moves, which he is sure to do when it gets dark. It will be a still night, and we should hear a stick break half a mile away. We shall catch him, safe enough, before he has gone far." "Well, I hope we shall have him back before Ben Soloman comes," the charcoal burner said, "or it will be worse for both of us. You know as well as I do he has got my neck in a noose, and he has got his thumb on you." "If we can't find this Swede, I would not wait here for any money. I would fly at once." "You would need to fly, in truth, to get beyond Ben Soloman's clutches," the charcoal burner said gruffly. "He has got agents all over the country." "Then what would you do?" "There is only one thing to do. It is our lives or his. When he rides up tomorrow, we will meet him at the door as if nothing had happened, and, with my axe, I will cleave his head asunder as he comes in. If he sees me in time to retreat, you shall stab him in the back. Then we will dig a big hole in the wood, and throw him in, and we will kill his horse and bury it with him. "Who would ever be the wiser? I was going to propose it last time, only I was not sure of you then; but, now that you are in it as deep as I am--deeper, indeed, for he put you here specially to look after this youngster--your interest in the matter is as great as mine." The Jew was silent for some time, then he said: "He has got papers at home which would bring me to the gallows." "Pooh!" the other said. "You do not suppose that, when it is found that he does not return, and his heirs open his coffers, they will take any trouble about what there may be in the papers there, except such as relate to his money. I will warrant there are papers there which concern scores of men besides you, for I know that Ben Soloman likes to work with agents he has got under his thumb. But, even if all the papers should be put into the hands of the authorities, what would come of it? They have got their hands full of other matters, for the present, and with the Swedes on their frontier, and the whole country divided into factions, who do you think is going to trouble to hunt up men for affairs that occurred years ago? Even if they did, they would not catch you. They have not got the means of running you down that Ben Soloman has. "I tell you, man, it must be done. There is no other way out of it." "Well, Conrad, if we cannot find this fellow before Ben Soloman comes, I am with you in the business. I have been working for him on starvation pay for the last three years, and hate him as much as you can." When they reached the hut they cooked a meal, and then prepared to keep alternate watch. Charlie slept quietly all night, and, in the morning, remained in his hiding place until he heard, in the distance, the sound of a horse's tread. Then he went out and sat down, leaning against a tree by the side of the path, in an attitude of exhaustion. Presently he saw Ben Soloman approaching. He got up feebly, and staggered a few paces to another tree, farther from the path. He heard an angry shout, and then Ben Soloman rode up, and, with a torrent of execrations at the carelessness of the watchers, leapt from his horse and sprang to seize the fugitive, whom he regarded as incapable of offering the slightest resistance. Charlie straightened himself up, as if with an effort, and raised his cudgel. "I will not be taken alive," he said. Ben Soloman drew his long knife from his girdle. "Drop that stick," he said, "or it will be worse for you." "It cannot be worse than being tortured to death, as you said." The Jew, with an angry snarl, sprang forward so suddenly and unexpectedly that he was within the swing of Charlie's cudgel before the latter could strike. He dropped the weapon at once, and caught the wrist of the uplifted hand that held the knife. The Jew gave a cry of astonishment and rage, as they clasped each other, and he found that, instead of an unresisting victim, he was in a powerful grasp. For a moment there was a desperate struggle. The Jew would, at ordinary times, have been no match for Charlie, but the latter was far from having regained his normal strength. His fury at the treatment he had received at the man's hands, however, enabled him, for the moment, to exert himself to the utmost, and, after swaying backwards and forwards in desperate strife for a minute, they went to the ground with a crash, Ben Soloman being undermost. The Jew's grasp instantly relaxed, and Charlie, springing to his feet and seizing his cudgel, stood over his fallen antagonist. The latter, however, did not move. His eyes were open in a fixed stare. Charlie looked at him in surprise for a moment, thinking he was stunned, then he saw that his right arm was twisted under him in the fall, and at once understanding what had happened, turned him half over. He had fallen on the knife, which had penetrated to the haft, killing him instantly. "I didn't mean to kill you," Charlie said aloud, "much as you deserve it, and surely as you would have killed me, if I had refused to act as a traitor. I would have broken your head for you, but that was all. However, it is as well as it is. It adds to my chance of getting away, and I have no doubt there will be many who will rejoice when you are found to be missing. "Now," he went on, "as your agents emptied my pockets, it is no robbery to empty yours. Money will be useful, and so will your horse." He stooped over the dead man, and took the purse from his girdle, when suddenly there was a rush of feet, and in a moment he was seized. The thought flashed through his mind that he had fallen into the power of his late guardians, but a glance showed that the men standing round were strangers. "Well, comrade, and who are you?" the man who was evidently the leader asked. "You have saved us some trouble. We were sleeping a hundred yards or two away, when we heard the horseman, and saw, as he passed, he was the Jew of Warsaw, to whom two or three of us owe our ruin, and it did not need more than a word for us to agree to wait for him till he came back. We were surprised when we saw you, still more so when the Jew jumped from his horse and attacked you. We did not interfere, because, if he had got the best of you, he might have jumped on his horse and ridden off, but directly he fell we ran out, but you were so busy in taking the spoil that you did not hear us. "I see the Jew is dead; fell on his own knife. It is just as well for him, for we should have tied him to a tree, and made a bonfire of him, if we had caught him." Charlie understood but little of this, but said when the other finished: "I understand but little Polish." "What are you then--a Russian? You do not look like one." "I am an Englishman, and am working in the house of Allan Ramsay, a Scotch trader in Warsaw." "Well, you are a bold fellow anyhow, and after the smart way in which you disposed of this Jew, and possessed yourself of his purse, you will do honour to our trade." "I hope you will let me go," Charlie said. "My friends in Warsaw will pay a ransom for me, if you will let me return there." "No, no, young fellow. You would of course put down this Jew's death to our doing, and we have weight enough on our backs already. He is a man of great influence, and all his tribe would be pressing on the government to hunt us down. You shall go with us, and the purse you took from Ben Soloman will pay your footing." Charlie saw that it would be useless to try and alter the man's decision, especially as he knew so little of the language. He therefore shrugged his shoulders, and said that he was ready to go with them, if it must be so. The Jew's body was now thoroughly searched. Various papers were found upon him, but, as these proved useless to the brigands, they were torn up. "Shall we take the horse with us?" one of the men asked the leader. "No, it would be worse than useless in the forest. Leave it standing here. It will find its way back in time. Then there will be a search, and there will be rejoicing in many a mansion throughout the country, when it is known that Ben Soloman is dead. They say he has mortgages on a score of estates, and, though I suppose these will pass to others of his tribe, they can hardly be as hard and mercenary as this man was. "I wonder what he was doing in this forest alone? Let us follow the path, and see where he is going. "Honred, you have a smattering of several languages, try then if you can make our new comrade understand." The man tried in Russian without success, then he spoke in Swedish, in which language Charlie at once replied. "Where does this pathway lead to?" "To a hut where a charcoal burner lives. I have been imprisoned there for the last fortnight. It was all the Jew's doing. It was through him that I got this knock here;" and he pointed to the unhealed wound at the back of his head. "Well, we may as well pay them a visit," the chief said, when this was translated to him. "We are short of flour, and they may have some there, and maybe something else that will be useful." Chapter 11: With Brigands. The man who had spoken to Charlie drew the long knife from the back of the Jew, wiped it on the grass, and handed it to him. "That ought to be your property," he said. "It has done you good service." Not sorry to have a weapon in addition to his cudgel, Charlie placed it in his belt, and then started with the bandits. He would not have cared to face the charcoal burner alone; but now that the band regarded him as enrolled among their number, he felt no uneasiness respecting him. When they issued from the trees, the Jew was seen standing at the door of the hut. He at once ran in on seeing them, and came out again, accompanied by the charcoal burner, who carried his axe on his shoulder. The Jew started, on catching sight of Charlie among the ranks of the brigands, and said a word or two to his companion. "Well, Master Charcoal Burner," the leader of the party said, "how is it that honest woodmen consort with rogues of the town?" "I don't know that they do so, willingly," the man said gruffly. "But some of us, to our cost, have put our heads into nooses, and the rogues of the town have got hold of the other end of the ropes, and we must just walk as we are told to." "Well, that is true enough," the brigand said. "And you, Jew, what are you doing here?" "I am like Conrad," he replied, sulkily. "It is not only countrymen who have their necks in a noose, and I have to do what I am ordered." "By a bigger rogue than yourself?" "That is so; bigger and cleverer." "You are expecting him here now, our new comrade tells us. Well, you need expect him no longer. He will not come. If you will go along the path, you will come upon his body, and may bury him if you like to take the trouble." An exclamation of satisfaction broke from the two men. "You have done us a service, indeed," the charcoal burner said. "We had thought to do it for ourselves, this morning, for after the escape of him you call your new comrade, he would have shown us no mercy." "You may thank our new comrade, and not us," the brigand said. "We only arrived on the spot when it was all over." The Jew looked at Charlie in astonishment. "What! Did he kill Ben Soloman?" "That did he; or rather, the Jew killed himself. There was a grapple hand to hand, and a wrestle. The Jew fell undermost, and was pierced with his own knife." "But the lad is but just out of a sickbed, and has no strength for a struggle, and Ben Soloman, though past middle life, was strong and active." "Neither strong enough nor active enough," the man laughed. "You have been nicely taken in. Who would have thought that two Jews and a Pole would have been cheated by an English lad? His face shows that he has been ill, and doubtless he has not yet recovered his full strength, but he was strong enough, anyhow, to overthrow Ben Soloman. "Now, what have you in the hut? We are in need of provisions." The hut was ransacked; the flour, two bottles of spirits, and a skin of wine seized, and the meat cut up and roasted over the fire. After the meal was eaten, the captain called upon Charlie to tell his story more fully, and this he did, with the aid of the man who spoke Swedish; starting, however, only at the point when he was attacked in the street, as he felt it better to remain silent as to his connection with the Swedish army. "But what was the cause of Ben Soloman's hostility to you?" "There are some in Warsaw who are of opinion that Augustus of Saxony has done much harm to Poland, in engaging without cause in the war against Charles of Sweden, and who think that it would be well that he should be dethroned, and some other prince made king in his place. To this party many of the traders belong, and the Jew had reason to think that I was acquainted with the design, and could give the names of those concerned in it. There was really no plot against Augustus, but it was only intended that a popular demonstration against his rule should be made. But Soloman wanted me to give evidence that there was a conspiracy against the king's life, so that he might gain great credit by exposing it, and might at the same time rid himself of many of his rivals in the trade." "He was an artful fox," the leader of the brigands said, when this had been translated to him. "But where is the Jew he put over you?" Three or four of the men sprang to their feet and ran out, but the Jew was nowhere to be seen. The captain was furious, and abused his men right and left, while his anger was in no way mitigated when one of them told him that, if he had wanted the Jew kept, he should have given one of them orders to look after him. This was so evident that the chief was silenced for a moment. "How long is it since any of you saw him last?" "He went round with the wineskin, and filled our cups just as we sat down to breakfast," one of the men said. "I have not noticed him since." Nor had any of the others. "Then it will be no use to pursue. He has had more than half an hour's start, and long before this he will have mounted Ben Soloman's horse, and have ridden off. "Well, comrade," he said, turning to Charlie, "this settles your movements. I was but half in earnest before as to your joining us; but it is clear now that there's nothing else for you to do, for the present. This fellow will, directly he gets to Warsaw, denounce you as the murderer of his master. That he is sure to do to avert suspicion from himself, and, if you were to return there, it would go hard with you. So, for a time, you must throw in your lot with us." When this was translated to Charlie, he saw at once the force of the argument. He could not have denied that the Jew had fallen in a hand-to-hand struggle with himself, and, were he to appear in Warsaw, he might be killed by the co-religionists of Ben Soloman; or, if he escaped this, might lie in a dungeon for months awaiting his trial, and perhaps be finally executed. There was nothing for him now but to rejoin the Swedes, and it would be some time, yet, before he would be sufficiently recovered to undertake such a journey. "I should not mind, if I could send a letter to Allan Ramsay, to tell him what has befallen me. He will be thinking I am dead, and will, at any rate, be in great anxiety about me." "I have taken a liking to you, young fellow," the leader said, "and will send in one of my men to Warsaw with a letter; that is, if you can write one." "Yes, I can write. Fortunately there are paper, pen, and an ink horn on that shelf. Ben Soloman brought them the last time he came, to write down the lies he wanted me to testify to. I am greatly obliged to you, and will do it at once." As he had, only the day before he was attacked, sent off a messenger to Count Piper, telling him all he had done the previous week, there was no occasion to repeat this, and he had only to give an account of his capture, and the events that had since occurred. "You see," he said, "I cannot return to Warsaw. The Jew who was here unfortunately heard that it was in a struggle with me Ben Soloman was killed, and he will, of course, denounce me as his murderer, though the deed was done in fair fight. I should have all his tribe against me, and might be imprisoned for months awaiting trial. I am still very weak, and could not attempt the journey to the frontier. I am, however, gaining strength, and, as soon as I am quite recovered, I shall take the first opportunity of leaving the men I am with, and making for the Swedish camp. Please forward this news by a sure hand to Count Piper, and express my sorrow that my mission has not been completed, although, indeed, I do not think that my further stay at Warsaw would have been any great service, for it is clear that the great majority of the traders will not move in the matter until the Swedes advance, and, from their point of view, it is not to their interest to do so. "I know but little of the men I am with at present, beyond the fact that they are bandits, nor can I say whether they are disbanded soldiers, or criminals who have escaped from justice; but at any rate they show me no ill will. I have no doubt I shall be able to get on fairly with them, until I am able to make my escape. I wish I had poor Stanislas with me. Only one of the men here speaks Swedish, and he does not know very much of the language. I cannot say, at present, whether the twenty men here are the whole of the band, or whether they are only a portion of it. Nor do I know whether the men subsist by plundering the peasants, or venture on more serious crimes. Thanking you for your great kindness during my stay at Warsaw, I remain, yours gratefully-- "Charlie Carstairs." While he was occupied in writing this letter, an animated conversation was going on between the bandits. Charlie gathered that this related to their future operations, but more than this he could not learn. In a postscript to the letter, he requested Allan Ramsay to hand over to the bearer some of the clothes left in his lodgings, and to pay him for his trouble. "As to the money I left in your hands, I do not think it worth while for you to send it. However much these men may consider me a comrade, I have not sufficient faith in their honesty to believe that money would reach me safely; but, if you send me a suit of clothes, two or three gold pieces might be wrapped up in a piece of cloth and shoved into the toe of a shoe. The parcel must be a small one, or there would be little chance of the man carrying it far. I will ask him, however, to bring me a sword, if you will buy one for me, and my pistols." He folded up the letter and gave it to the captain. There was no means of fastening it, but this mattered little, because, being written in English, there was no chance of its being read. The captain handed it to one of the men, with instructions for its delivery. The messenger started at once. The others, after remaining a short time in the hut, set out through the forest. After an hour's walking, Charlie was unable to go further. The captain, seeing this, ordered four of the men to stop with him, and to follow the next morning. As soon as he had gone on with the rest of the band, the men set about collecting sticks and making a fire. Charlie, who was utterly exhausted, threw himself on the ground, and was not long before he fell sound asleep. When he awoke, the shades of evening were already falling, and the men were sitting over the fire, roasting a portion of a goat, one of a flock they had fallen in with in the wood, where large numbers roamed about in a semi-wild state. The man who could speak Swedish was one of those who had remained with him, and, from him, he learnt that the present headquarters of the band were some six miles farther away. This distance was performed next morning, frequent halts being made to enable him to sit down and rest; and it was not till five hours after the start that they arrived. Overgrown as it now was, with trees and undergrowth, he could see that a village once stood there. It must, however, have been abandoned a very long time, as trees of considerable size grew among the low walls and piles of stones that marked where cottages had stood. The place occupied by the brigands had, in former times, been a castellated building of some strength, standing on a knoll in the middle of the village, which had probably been inhabited by the retainers of its owner. Part of the wall had fallen, but a large arched room, that had doubtless been the banqueting hall of the castle, remained almost intact, and here the brigands had established themselves. Several fires burned on the flagged floors, the smoke finding its way out through holes and crevices in the roof. Some fifty men were gathered round these, and were occupied in cooking their midday meal. "I am glad to see that you have arrived," the captain said, coming across to Charlie. "I expected you two hours ago, and intended, as soon as we had finished our meal, to send out another four men to meet you and help to carry you in." "Thank you," Charlie said. "It is not the men's fault we are late, but the last part of the way we came on very slowly. I was getting so exhausted that I had to stop every few hundred yards." "Well, you had better eat something, and then lie down for a sleep. Meat is plentiful with us, for there are thousands of goats in the forest, and occasionally we get a deer or wild boar. If we had but bread and wine we should live like nobles. Our supplies, however, are low at present, and we shall have to make an expedition, tomorrow or next day, to replenish them." Charlie ate a few mouthfuls of meat, and then lay down and slept, for some hours, on a bed of leaves. He was awoke by loud and excited talking among the men, and learnt from Honred that one of the men, who had been left on watch at the mouth of the path by which he had entered the forest, had just brought in the news that a party of a hundred infantry, led by the Jew, had arrived with a cart. In this the body of Ben Soloman had been sent off, while the troops had established themselves in the little clearing round the hut. "This comes of letting that Jew escape," the captain said. "No doubt he told the story his own way, and the Jewish traders went to the governor and asked that troops should be sent to root us out. Well, they are far enough away at present, and I have sent off to have their movements watched. It is a good nine miles, from here to the hut, and they may look for a week before they find this place, unless that rascally Jew has heard of it from the woodman, or they get hold of the fellow himself, though I should think they will hardly do that. I fancy he has some cause of quarrel with the authorities, and will not put himself in the way of being questioned closely, if he can help it." The next morning when Charlie awoke, two men were standing beside him. His eyes first fell on the one who had been to the town, and who held a large bundle in his hand. Then he turned his eyes to the other, and gave an exclamation of pleasure, as he saw that it was Stanislas. He looked pale and weak, and was evidently just recovering from a severe illness. "Why, Stanislas!" he exclaimed. "This is a pleasure, indeed. I never for a moment dreamt of seeing you. I heard from the Jew who guarded me that you got away, but I was afraid that you had been badly wounded. Why, my brave fellow, what brings you here?" "I have come to be with your honour," the man said. "It was, of course, my duty to be by your side. I was very ill for a week, for I had half a dozen wounds, but I managed, after the assailants left me, to crawl back to Mr. Ramsay's to tell him what had happened. I don't remember much about the next few days. Since then I have been mending rapidly. None of the wounds were very serious, and it was more loss of blood, than anything else, that ailed me. Mr. Ramsay searched high and low for you, and we had all given you up for dead, till a few hours before this man arrived with your letter. "We heard you had killed Ben Soloman. I had a long talk with your messenger, who received a handsome present from Mr. Ramsay, and he agreed to conduct me here, upon my solemn promise that, if the captain would not receive me, I would not give any information, on my return, as to the whereabouts of the band. Mr. Ramsay hired a light cart, and that brought us yesterday far into the forest. We camped there, and I had not more than a couple of miles to walk to get here this morning." "Have you seen the captain?" Charlie asked eagerly. "Yes. I was stopped by some sentries, a quarter of a mile away, and was kept there while my guide came on and got permission of the captain for me to be brought in. When I met him, I had no great difficulty in persuading him to let me stop, for Mr. Ramsay had given me fifty rix-dollars to give him; and so, your honour, here I am, and here is a letter from Mr. Ramsay himself." "I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you, Stanislas. I am getting better, but I am so weak that I took five hours, yesterday, to get six miles. Now I have got you to talk to, I shall pick up strength faster than I have been doing, for it has been very dull work having no one who could understand me. There is only one man here who understands a word of Swedish." "We will soon get you round, sir, never fear. I have brought with me four casks of wine. They were left at the place where the cart stopped last night, but the captain has sent off men already to bring them in. You will be all the better for a suit of clean clothes." "That I shall. It is a month now since I had a change, and my jerkin is all stained with blood. I want a wash more than anything; for there was no water near the hut, and the charcoal burner used to bring in a small keg from a spring he passed on his way to his work. That was enough for drinking, but not enough for washing--a matter which never seemed to have entered into his head, or that of the Jew, as being in the slightest degree necessary." "There is a well just outside," Stanislas said. "I saw them drawing water in buckets as we came in. I suppose it was the well of this castle, in the old time." "I will go and have a wash, and change my clothes the first thing," Charlie said. "Mr. Ramsay's letter will keep till after that." They went out to the well together. "So you heard the story, that I had killed Ben Soloman, before you left?" "Yes; before your letter arrived, Mr. Ramsay sent for me, and told me a Jewish trader had just informed him that news had come that Ben Soloman had been murdered, and the deed had been done by the young Scotchman who had been with him. Mr. Ramsay did not believe the story in the slightest. He admitted that Ben Soloman might have been murdered, and even said frankly that, hated as he was, it was the most natural end for him to come to; but that you should have done so was, he said, absurd. In the first place, he did not think that you were alive; and in the second, it was far more probable that you had been murdered by Ben Soloman, than that he should have been murdered by you. "However, even before your letter came, three or four hours later, there seemed no longer any doubt that you had killed the Jew. By that time, there was quite an uproar among his people. He was the leader of their community, and had dealings with so many nobles that his influence was great; and, although he was little liked, he was regarded as an important person, and his loss was a very heavy one to the Jewish community. A deputation went to the governor, and we heard that troops would be at once sent out to capture you, and the band of brigands you had joined. Mr. Ramsay told me that it was fortunate, indeed, that you had not returned to the city. But, no doubt, he has told you all that in the letter." "I feel quite another man, Stanislas," Charlie said, when he had changed his garments. "Now I can read the letter you brought me." After expressing the great satisfaction he felt, at the news that Charlie was alive, Mr. Ramsay went on to say that, even were he well, he could not return to Warsaw in the present state of public feeling. "Your story that you were attacked, grievously wounded, and, after being confined here for some days, carried away and confined in the wood, by order of Ben Soloman, and that he visited you there, would be treated with derision. The version given by the man who brought in the story of the Jew's death was that he himself was staying in the cottage of a charcoal burner, an acquaintance of his, and that a party of brigands, of whom you were one, arrived there, and that they were boasting of having caused the death of Ben Soloman, who had fallen by your hand. He managed to escape from the brigands, and on the road found the dead body of his employer, who was, he knew, that morning coming out to give him some instructions. My opinion, and that of my friends who knew you, was that the fellow had himself killed and robbed his master; but your letter, of course, showed that his account was true to some extent--that Ben Soloman had fallen in a struggle with you, and that you yourself were a prisoner in the hands of these bandits. Still, as it would be next to impossible for you to prove the truth of your story, and as the Jews of the place, who are numerous and influential, are dead against you, your life would certainly be forfeited were you to be captured. "I know your story to be true, but it would appear wildly improbable, to others, that this wealthy Jew should have conspired, in the first place, to cause an attack to be made upon an unknown young stranger, still less that he should have had him carried off to the forest, and should have gone to visit him there. The explanation that you were a Swedish officer in disguise would not benefit you in any way, while it would involve us who knew you in your danger, and would cause the Jew to be regarded as a man who had lost his life in endeavouring to unmask a plot against Poland. Therefore, I think it is extremely fortunate that you are, for the present, safe in the hands of these brigands, and should certainly advise you to make no attempt to leave them, until you are perfectly well and strong. "I have, as you directed me, hidden a few pieces of gold in your shoe, and have handed the rest of your money to your man, who is starting to join you. He will conceal it about him. I have just heard that a body of troops are starting at once for the forest, and that orders have been sent to other towns, to send detachments into it at different points, so it is evident the authorities are determined to catch you, if possible. If you had killed half a dozen traders in a smaller way, they would have cared little about it; but just at present, pressed as the king is by want of money, he is bound to do everything he can to please the Jewish traders, as it is upon them that he must rely for loans for the payment of his troops. "In this matter, then, he will leave no stone unturned to gratify them, and I should strongly advise your band to move away from the neighbourhood, at any rate for a time. They may plunder whole villages with impunity, but what is regarded as the murder of the richest citizen of Warsaw, a man mixed up in business and politics with half the principal nobles of the land, is a different matter altogether. Do not think of trying to traverse the country until you are perfectly strong. It will be a dangerous business at the best, but with your man with you, to bear the brunt of replying to questions, I have every confidence that you will succeed in making your way through. As to this, I can give no advice, as there is no saying as to the point from which you may start, or the directions in which you may travel. "Should you, at any time, find yourself in a town in which there are any of my countrymen established in trade, and you will find them nearly everywhere, use my name. I think it is pretty generally known to Scotchmen in Poland. You will see I have inclosed a note that will be useful to you." The inclosure contained only a few words: "I, Allan Ramsay, merchant of Warsaw, do declare the bearer of this note to be my friend, and beg any countrymen of mine, to whom he may present himself, to assist him in every way, and, should he require money, to furnish him with it, I undertaking to make myself responsible for the same, and to pay all monies and other charges that he may incur." "The first thing to do," Charlie said, as he placed the letters in his doublet, "is to let the leader of our band know that other bodies of troops, besides that at the hut, are about to enter the forest. He may decide that it is necessary to march away at once." As soon, indeed, as the outlaw received the tidings, he issued orders for the band to prepare for instant departure. "A party of five or six men together," he said to Charlie, "might hide in this forest for years. But a band of fifty is too large to be long concealed. To begin with, they must get food, and must either buy it or hunt for it; and in the second, there are a considerable number of men living in the forest, charcoal burners and herders of goats and swine, and any of these, if questioned by the troops, might mention that they had seen a considerable number of men passing. As it is, we will break up into parties of seven or eight, and appoint a rendezvous where we may meet again." The band was speedily mustered, for, with the exception of those who were watching the forest through which the troops at the hut must march to reach them, the whole were close at hand. A messenger was sent off to call in the scouts. Then the booty that had been taken during their late excursions was brought out, and emptied on the ground. It consisted of money and jewellery. It was divided into equal portions, of which each member took one, the lieutenants of the band two, and the captain three. "You don't share this time," the latter said to Charlie; "but next time, of course, you and your comrade will each have your portion." When this was done, the men were told off in parties of six or seven, and instructions given as to the point of rendezvous. Each band chose its own leader, and, in an hour from the reception of the news, the place was deserted, and the parties were making their way in different directions through the forest. Charlie and Stanislas formed part of the captain's own force, which numbered ten in all. "Do you think they will all turn up at the meeting place?" Charlie asked the leader, whose name he now ascertained was Ladislas Koffski. "They may," he said. "But it is seldom that bands, when they once disperse like this, ever come together again. It is impossible to content everyone, and any man who is chosen leader of a party may, if he is dissatisfied, persuade those with him to join some other band. Even if they do not go in a body, many are sure to break off and make for their homes, to enjoy the booty they have gathered. "But, upon the other hand, as we go we shall gather up fresh recruits. With so many disbanded soldiers and discontented men roaming the country, there is no difficulty in getting as many men as one cares to keep together. "Fifty is the outside that is advisable, for with more, even if one makes a good haul, it comes to so little, a head, that the men are dissatisfied. Of course they work in small parties, but this does not succeed so well as when a small band are under a single leader." "How long have you been at this work?" "Since last autumn." "And you find it pay?" "We do not get much in money. As you saw, there were but four rix dollars a head, and that is the result of a month's work. Still, that is not bad for men who might otherwise starve. Sometimes we do worse and sometimes better, but that is about the average. Still, the life is a pleasant one, and unless we disbanded soldiers took to it, what would there be for us to do? If government would keep us on regular pay, there would soon be no brigands left, except the men who have escaped from justice. But the treasury is empty, and, even at the best of times, the troops are badly and irregularly paid, and are forced to plunder to keep life together. They are almost in rags, and though we Poles do not mind fighting, there is generally a difficulty in getting sufficient infantry. As for the cavalry, they are nobles, and draw no pay. "How do you feel today?" "Better. The night's rest, and a wash and change of clothes this morning, have made me feel another man. How far do you intend to march?" "We shall go slowly for a day or two. The other parties have all pushed on ahead fast, but by taking matters quietly, and by keeping a sharp lookout, we need have no great fear of being surprised. I know the forest well, and its thickest hiding places, so we can afford to travel slowly, and as you become accustomed to it you will be able to make longer journeys." For ten days they travelled through the forest, increasing their distance daily, as Charlie regained his strength. The last day or two they did not make less than twenty miles a day. Their faces were turned steadily east. Occasionally they passed large tracts of cleared land, villages, and cultivated fields. At some of these they stopped and replenished their stock of flour, which they took without paying for it, but did no farther damage. Of meat they had abundance. Two or three men started each day as soon as they halted, and, in a short time, returned with a goat or young pig. "We are now close to the Bug River," Ladislas said at their last halting place. "Tomorrow we shall meet some, at least, of our comrades. I do not expect a great many, for we were pretty equally divided as to the direction we should travel in. Practically, we were safe from pursuit when we had gone fifteen miles, for the forest there spreads out greatly, and those in search of us would know that further pursuit would be useless. Many of my men did not care about going farther, but all this part of the country has been so harried, for the last two or three years, that we thought it best to try altogether new ground. When we have crossed the Bug we shall be beyond the forest, but there are great swamps and morasses, and hills with patches of wood. Many streams take their rise there, all meeting farther on, and forming the Dnieper. We must keep north of that river, for to the south the country is thinly populated, and we should have difficulty in maintaining ourselves." Charlie made no comment, but he was glad to hear that the band intended to keep to the north of the Dnieper, for that river would have formed a serious obstacle to his making his way to rejoin the Swedes. The next day, they reached the bank of the Bug, and, following the river down, came after an hour's walking upon a great fire, round which fifteen men were stretched. These, as the captain's party approached, rose to their feet with a shout of welcome. "That is better than I expected," Ladislas said, as they came up to them. "Five and twenty is quite enough for work here. In the forests one can do with more, but, moving steadily on, as we mean to do, till we get pretty near the eastern frontier, five and twenty is ample. It is enough, when together, to surprise a village; and it is not too many, travelling in twos and threes, to attract attention. Things always go on better, too, after a dispersal. Many who are discontented, or who want to command a band of their own, break off, and one starts fresh, with just the men one likes best to keep." "We had begun to give you up, captain," one of the men said, as he joined the other party. "We have been here six days." "We travelled but slowly, at first, and it is only the last two days we have really made fair journeys; but there was no reason for any great haste. The world is all our own, and, at any rate, as long as we were in the forest, there was no fear of wanting food. "So I see some of our comrades have left us." "We can do very well without them, captain. There were thirty of us here two days ago. Essos and Polinski quarrelled, and Essos was killed. Then Polinski wanted us to elect him captain, and to move away at once. Four or five, who have always been grumblers, joined him at once, and persuaded some of the others, till we were about equally divided. It came pretty nearly to a fight; but neither liked to begin, and they moved away." "There are quite enough of us left," Ladislas said. "As to Essos and Polinski, I am heartily glad that they have gone. I know they have both been scheming for the leadership for some time. Most of the others can be very well spared, too. There are plenty of us here for travel. There is no doubt, as we agreed before starting, that there is not much more to be done in this part of the country. What with the civil wars, and the bands of soldiers without a leader, and others like ourselves who do not mean to starve, the peasants have been wrought up into a state of desperation. They have little left to lose, but what they have got they are ready to fight to the death for, and, lately, at the first alarm they have sounded the bells and assembled for miles round, and, equipped with scythes and flails, routed those who meddled with them. We had more than one hot fight, and lost many good men. Besides, many of the nobles who have suffered have turned out, with their followers, and struck heavy blows at some of the bands; so that the sooner we get out of this country, which is becoming a nest of hornets, the better, for there is little booty and plenty of hard blows to be got. "We will go on, as we agreed, till near the eastern frontier. The country is well covered with forest there, and we can sally out on which side we like, for, if there is not much gold to be had in the Russian villages, there is plenty of vodka, and sometimes things worth taking in their churches. The priests and headmen, too, have generally got a little store, which can be got at with the aid of a few hot coals, or a string twisted tight enough round a thumb. At any rate we sha'n't starve; but we must move on pretty fast, for we shall have to get up a warm hut in the forest, and to lay in a stock of provisions before the winter sets in. So we must only stop to gather a little plunder when a good opportunity offers." Chapter 12: Treed By Wolves. Charlie and Stanislas were, that evening, sitting apart from the rest, at a short distance from the fire, talking over the future. They agreed that it would be comparatively easy to withdraw from the band as they journeyed forward, if, as seemed likely, they travelled in very small parties. If, indeed, they found themselves with two others, they could leave openly, for these would scarcely care to enter upon a desperate struggle, merely for the sake of retaining two unwilling companions in the band. The difficulties would only begin when they started alone. As they were talking, the captain came across to them. "I can guess," he said, "that you are talking together as to the future. I like you, young Englishman, and I like your companion, who seems an honest fellow, but I would not keep you with me by force. I understand that you are not placed as we are. We have to live. Most of us would live honestly if we could, but at present it is the choice of doing as we do, or starving. We occasionally take a few crowns, if we come across a fat trader, or may ease a rich farmer of his hoard, but it is but seldom such a chance comes in our way. As a rule, we simply plunder because we must live. It is different with you. Your friends may be far away, but if you can get to them you would have all that you need. Therefore, this life, which is hard and rough, to say nothing of its danger, does not suit you; but for all that, you must stay with us, for it would be madness for you to attempt to escape. "As I told you, the peasants are maddened, and would kill any passing stranger as they would a wild beast. They would regard him as a spy of some band like ours, or of a company of disbanded soldiers, sent forward to discover which houses and villages are best worth plundering. In your case, you have other dangers to fear. You may be sure that news has been sent from Warsaw to all the different governors, with orders for your arrest for killing Ben Soloman, and these orders will be transmitted to every town and village. Your hair and eyes would at once betray you as strangers, and your ignorance of the language would be fatal to you. If, therefore, you escaped being killed as a robber by the peasants, you would run the risk of arrest at the first town or village you entered. "Translate that to him, Stanislas. He is learning our language fast, but he cannot understand all that." "That is just what we were talking about," Charlie said, when Stanislas had repeated the captain's speech, "and the danger seems too great to be risked. Think you, that when we get farther to the east, we shall be able to make our way more easily up into Livonia?" "Much more easily, because the forest is more extensive there; but not until the winter is over. The cold will be terrible, and it would be death to sleep without shelter. Besides, the forests are infested with wolves, who roam about in packs, and would scent and follow and devour you. But when spring comes, you can turn your faces to the north, and leave us if you think fit, and I promise you that no hindrance shall be thrown in your way. I only ask you not to risk your lives by trying now to pass through Poland alone." "I think you are right, Ladislas, and I promise you that we will not attempt to leave you during our journey east. As you say, it would be impossible for us to travel after winter had once set in. It is now the end of September." "And it will be November before we reach our destination. We shall not travel fast. We have no motive for doing so. We have to live by the way, and to gather a little money to help us through the winter. We may shoot a bear or an elk sometimes, a few deer, and hares, but we shall want two or three sacks of flour, and some spirits. For these we must either get money, or take the goods. The first is the best, for we have no means of dragging heavy weights with us, and it would not do to infuriate the peasants by plundering any of them within twenty miles of the place where we mean to winter. That would set them all against us." "I tell you frankly, Ladislas, that we shall not be willing to aid in any acts of robbery. Of course, when one is with an army one has to plunder on a large scale, and it has often gone terribly against the grain, when I have had to join parties sent out to forage. But it has to be done. I would rather not join men in taking food, yet I understand that it may be necessary. But as to taking money, I will have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I understand that we cannot share your food, and be with you, without doing something. Stanislas has brought me a little money from Warsaw, and I shall be ready to pay into the common treasury a sum sufficient to pay for our share of the food. As to money taken, we shall not expect any share of it. If you are attacked, we shall of course fight, and shall be ready to do our full share in all work. So, at any rate, you will not be losers by taking us with you." "That is fair enough," the captain said, when Stanislas had translated what Charlie said, suppressing, however, his remarks about foraging with the army, as the brigands were ignorant that Charlie and he had any connection with the Swedes, or that he was not, as he had given out, a young Englishman come out to set up as a trader. The band now journeyed slowly on, keeping near the north bank of the Dnieper. They went by twos and threes, uniting sometimes and entering a village or surrounding a farmhouse at night, and taking what they wanted. The people were, however, terribly poor, and they were able to obtain but little beyond scanty supplies of flour, and occasionally a few gold or silver trinkets. Many other bands of plunderers had passed along, in the course of the summer, and the robbers themselves were often moved to pity by the misery that they everywhere met with. When in small parties they were obliged to avoid entering any villages, for once or twice furious attacks were made upon those who did so, the women joining the men in arming themselves with any weapon that came to hand, and in falling upon the strangers. Only once did they succeed in obtaining plunder of value. They had visited a village, but found it contained nothing worth taking. One of the women said: "Why do you trouble poor people like us? There is the count's chateau three miles away. They have every luxury there, while we are starving." After leaving the village, the man to whom she had spoken repeated what she had said, and it was agreed to make the attempt. At the first cottage they came to they made further inquiries, and found that the lord of the soil was very unpopular; for, in spite of the badness of the times, he insisted on receiving his rents without abatement, and where money was not forthcoming, had seized cattle and horses, assessing them at a price far below what they would have fetched at the nearest market. They therefore marched to the house. It was a very large one. The captain thoughtfully placed Charlie and Stanislas among the six men who were to remain without, to prevent any of the inmates leaving the chateau. With the rest, he made a sudden attack on the great door of the house, and beat it down with a heavy sledge hammer. Just as it gave way, some shots were fired from the inside, but they rushed in, overpowered the servants, and were soon masters of the place. In half an hour they came out again, laden with booty. Each man carried half a dozen bottles of choice wine, from the count's cellar, slung at his belt. On their shoulders they carried bundles containing silver cups and other valuables; while six of them had bags of silver money, that had been extracted from the count by threats of setting fire to the chateau, and burning him and his family. A halt was made two or three miles away, when the silver was divided into shares as usual, the men being well satisfied when they learned that Charlie and his companion claimed no part of it. Some of the provisions they had also taken were eaten. Each man had a flask of wine, with which the count's health was derisively drunk. "This has been a good night's work," the leader said, "and you have each sixty rix dollars in your pockets, which is more than you have had for months past. That will keep us in provisions and spirits all through the winter; but mind, although we took it without much trouble, we have not heard the last of the business. No doubt, by this time, the count has sent off a messenger to the nearest town where there are troops, and, for a day or two, we shall have to march fast and far. It is one thing to plunder villages, and another to meddle with a rich nobleman." For the next forty-eight hours they marched by night instead of by day, keeping always together, and prepared to resist an attack. One morning they saw, from their hiding place among some high reeds near the river, a body of about sixty horsemen ride past at a distance. They were evidently searching for something, for parties could be seen to break off several times, and to enter woods and copses, the rest halting till they came out again. As the band had with them enough food for another three days, they remained for thirty-six hours in their hiding place, and then, thinking the search would by that time be discontinued, went on again. The next day they killed two or three goats from a herd, the boy in charge of them making off with such speed that, though hotly pursued and fired at several times, he made his escape. They carried the carcasses to a wood, lit a fire, and feasted upon them. Then, having cooked the rest of the flesh, they divided it among the band. By this time the wine was finished. The next day they again saw horsemen in the distance, but remained in hiding till they had disappeared in the afternoon. They then went into a village, but scarcely had they proceeded up the street when the doors were opened, and from every house men rushed out armed with flails, clubs, and axes, and fell upon them furiously, shouting "Death to the robbers!" They had evidently received warning that a band of plunderers were approaching, and everything had been prepared for them. The band fought stoutly, but they were greatly outnumbered, and, as but few of them carried firearms, they had no great advantage in weapons. Charlie and Stanislas, finding that their lives were at stake, were forced to take part in the fray, and both were with the survivors of the band, who at last succeeded in fighting their way out of the village, leaving half their number behind them, while some twenty of the peasants had fallen. Reduced now to twelve men and the captain, they thought only of pushing forward, avoiding all villages, and only occasionally visiting detached houses for the sake of obtaining flour. The country became more thinly populated as they went on, and there was a deep feeling of satisfaction when, at length, their leader pointed to a belt of trees in the distance, and said: "That is the beginning of the forest. A few miles farther, and we shall be well within it." By nightfall they felt, for the first time since they had set out on their journey, that they could sleep in safety. A huge fire was lit, for the nights were now becoming very cold, and snow had fallen occasionally for the last four or five days, and in the open country was lying some inches deep. The next day they journeyed a few miles farther, and then chose a spot for the erection of a hut. It was close to a stream, and the men at once set to work, with axes, to fell trees and clear a space. It was agreed that the captain and two of the men, of the most pacific demeanour, should go to the nearest town, some forty miles away, to lay in stores. They were away five days, and then returned with the welcome news that a cart, laden with flour and a couple of barrels of spirits, was on a country track through the forest a mile and a half away. "How did you manage, captain?" Charlie asked. "We went to the house of a well-to-do peasant, about a mile from the borders of the wood. I told him frankly that we belonged to a band who were going to winter in the forest, that we would do him no harm if he would give us his aid, but that if he refused he would soon have his place burnt over his head. As we said we were ready to pay a fair sum for the hire of his cart, he did not hesitate a moment about making the choice. The other two remained at his cottage, so as to keep his family as hostages for his good faith, and I went with him to the town, where we bought six sacks of good flour and the two barrels of spirits. We got a few other things--cooking pots and horns, and a lot of coarse blankets, and a thick sheepskin coat for each man. They are all in the car. I see that you have got the hut pretty nearly roofed in, so, in a day or two, we shall be comfortable." They went in a body to the place where the cart had been left, but it required two journeys before its contents were all transported to the hut. Another three days and this was completed. It was roughly built of logs, the interstices being filled in with moss. There was no attempt at a door, an opening being left four feet high and eighteen inches wide for the purpose of an entry. The skin of a deer they had shot, since they arrived, was hung up outside; and a folded rug inside. There was no occasion for windows. A certain amount of light made its way in by an orifice, a foot square, that had been left in the roof for the escape of smoke. The hut itself consisted of one room only, about eighteen feet square. When this was finished, all hands set to work to pile up a great stack of firewood, close to the door, so as to save them from the necessity of going far, until snow had ceased falling, and winter had set in in earnest. The cart had brought six carcasses of sheep, that had been purchased from a peasant; these were hung up outside the hut to freeze hard, and the meat was eaten only once a day, as it would be impossible to obtain a fresh supply, until the weather became settled enough to admit of their hunting. The preparations were but just finished when the snow began to fall heavily. For a week it came down without intermission, the wind howled among the trees, and even Charlie, half stifled as he was by the smoke, felt no inclination to stir out, except for half an hour's work to clear away the snow from the entrance, and to carry in wood from the pile. The time passed more cheerfully than might have been expected. He had by this time begun to talk Polish with some facility, and was able to understand the stories that the men told, as they sat round the fire; sometimes tales of adventures they themselves had gone through, sometimes stories of the history of Poland, its frequent internal wars, and its struggles with the Turks. Making bread and cooking occupied some portion of the time, and much was spent in sleep. At the end of a week the snow ceased falling and the sun came out, and all were glad to leave the hut and enjoy the clear sky and the keen air. While they had been confined to the hut, two of the men had made a large number of snares for hares, and they at once started into the forest, to set these in spots where they saw traces of the animals' passage over the snow. The rest went off in parties of twos and threes in search of other game. With the exception of Charlie, all were accustomed to the woods; but, as Stanislas had much less experience than the others, the captain decided to go with them. "It is easy for anyone to lose his way here," he said. "In fact, except to one accustomed to the woods, it would be dangerous to go far away from the hut. As long as it is fine, you will find your way back by following your own tracks, but if the weather changed suddenly, and it came on to snow, your case would be hopeless. One of the advantages of placing our hut on a stream is that it forms a great aid to finding one's way back. If you strike it above, you follow it down; if below, upwards, until you reach the hut. Of course you might wander for days and never hit it, still it is much more easy to find than a small object like the hut, though even when found, it would be difficult to decide whether it had been struck above or below the hut. "Now, there is one rule if, at any time, you get lost. Don't begin to wander wildly about, for, if you did, you would certainly walk in a circle, and might never be found again. Sit down quietly and think matters over, eat if you have got any food with you; then examine the sky, and try to find out from the position of the sun, or the direction in which the clouds are going, which way the hut ought to lie. Always take with you one of your pistols; if you fire it three times, at regular intervals, it will be a signal that you want help, and any of us who are within hearing will come to aid you." With the exception of hares, of which a good many were snared, the hunting was not productive. Tracks of deer were seen not unfrequently, but it was extremely difficult, even when the animals were sighted, to get across the surface of the snow to within range of the clumsy arquebuses that two or three of the men carried. They did, however, manage to shoot a few by erecting a shelter, just high enough for one man to lie down under, and leaving it until the next snowstorm so covered it that it seemed but a knoll in the ground, or a low shrub bent down and buried under the weight of the snow. These shelters were erected close to paths taken by the deer, and, by lying patiently all day in them, the men occasionally managed to get a close shot. Several bears were killed, and two elks. These afforded food for a long time, as the frozen flesh would keep until the return of spring. Holes were made in the ice on the stream, and baited hooks being set every night, it was seldom that two or three fish were not found fast on them in the morning. Altogether, therefore, there was no lack of food; and as, under the teaching of the captain, Charlie in time learnt to be able to keep his direction through the woods, he was often able to go out, either with Stanislas or alone, thus keeping clear of the close smoky hut during the hours of daylight. Upon the whole he found the life by no means an unpleasant one. Among the articles purchased by the captain were high boots, lined with sheepskin, coming up to the thigh. With these and the coats, which had hoods to pull over the head, Charlie felt the cold but little during the day; while at night he found the hut often uncomfortably warm, sleeping, as they all did, in the same attire in which they went out. In February the weather became excessively severe, more so, the peasants and charcoal burners they occasionally met with declared, than they ever remembered. The wild animals became tamer, and in the morning when they went out, they frequently found tracks of bears that had been prowling round the hut in search of offal, or bones thrown out. They were now obliged to hang their supply of meat, by ropes, from boughs at some distance from the ground, by which means they were enabled to prevent the bears getting at it. They no longer dared to venture far from the hut, for large packs of wolves ranged through the forest, and, driven by hunger, even entered villages, where they attacked and killed many women and children, made their entrance into sheds, and tore dogs, horses, and cattle to pieces, and became at last so dangerous that the villagers were obliged to keep great fires burning in the streets at night, to frighten them away. Several times the occupants of the hut were awakened by the whining and snarling of wolves outside. But the walls and roof were alike built of solid timber, and a roughly-made door of thick wood was now fastened, every night, against the opening, and so stoutly supported by beams behind it as to defy assault. Beyond, therefore, a passing grumble at being awakened by the noise, the men gave themselves no trouble as to the savage animals outside. "If these brutes grow much bolder," the captain said one day, "we shall be prisoners here altogether. They must have come down from the great forest that extends over a large part of Russia. The villages are scarce there, and the peasants take good care to keep all their beasts in shelter, so no doubt they are able to pick up more at the edge of the forest here." "How far are we from the Russian frontier?" "I do not think anyone could tell you. For aught I know, we may be in Russia now. These forests are a sort of no man's land, and I don't suppose any line of frontier has ever been marked. It is Russia to the east of this forest, some thirty miles away, and it is Poland to the west of it. The forest is no good to anyone except the charcoal burners. I have met both Russians and Poles in the wood, and, as there is plenty of room for all--ay, and would be were there a thousand to every one now working in it--they are on friendly terms with each other, especially as the two nations are, at present, allied against Sweden." In spite of the wolves, Charlie continued his walks in the forest, accompanied always by Stanislas. Both carried axes and pistols, and, although Charlie had heard many tales of solitary men, and even of vehicles, being attacked by the wolves in broad daylight, he believed that most of the stories were exaggerations, and that the chances of two men being attacked in daylight were small, indeed. He had found that the track, by which the cart had brought the stores, was a good deal used, the snow being swept away or levelled by the runners of sledges, either those of peasants who came into the forest for wood or charcoal, or of travellers journeying between Russia and Poland. He generally selected this road for his walk, both because it was less laborious than wading through the untrodden snow, and because there was here no fear of losing his way, and he was spared the incessant watchfulness for signs that was necessary among the trees. At first he had frequently met peasants' carts on the road, but, since the cold became more severe and the wolves more numerous and daring, he no longer encountered them. He had indeed heard, from some of the last he saw, that they should come no more, for that the charcoal burners were all abandoning their huts, and going into the villages. One afternoon, when they had, on their return, nearly reached the spot where they left the road to strike across the forest to the hut, they heard a noise behind them. "That is a pack of wolves, in full cry!" Stanislas exclaimed. "You had better get up into a tree. They are after something." They hastily clambered into a tree, whose lower branches were but six or seven feet from the ground. A moment later two horses, wild with fright, dashed past, while some twenty yards behind them came a pack of fifty or sixty wolves. They were almost silent now, with their red tongues hanging out. "The brutes have been attacking a sledge," Stanislas said in a low tone. "You saw the horses were harnessed, and their broken traces were hanging by their side. It is easy to read the story. The sledge was attacked; the horses, mad with fear, broke their traces and rushed off, or perhaps the driver, seeing at the last moment that escape was impossible, slashed the ropes with his knife, so as to give the horses a chance. I expect they got a start, for the wolves would be detained a little at the sledge." "Do you think the poor beasts will get safe out of the forest, Stanislas?" "I don't think so, but they may. The chase has evidently been a long one, and the wolves have tired themselves with their first efforts to come up to them. It did not seem to me that they were gaining when they passed us. It is simply a question of endurance, but I fancy the wolves will last longest. "See, here is a party of stragglers. I suppose they stopped longer at the sledge." "It seems to me they are on our scent, Stanislas. Do you see, they are coming along at the side of the road where we walked, with their heads down." "I am afraid they are. Well, we shall soon see. Yes, they are leaving the road where we did." A moment later a dozen wolves ran up to the trunk of the tree, and there gathered snuffing and whining. Presently one caught sight of the two figures above them, and with an angry yelp sprang up in the air, and immediately all were growling, snarling, and leaping. Charlie laughed out loud at their impotent efforts. "It is no laughing matter, sir," Stanislas said gravely. "They cannot climb up here, Stanislas." "No, but they can keep us here. It will be dark in an hour, and likely enough they will watch us all night." "Then we had better shoot two of them, and jump down with our hatchets. Keeping back to back, we ought to be able to face ten wolves." "Yes, if that were all; but see, here come three or four more, and the dozen will soon swell to a score. No, we shall have to wait here all night, and probably for some time tomorrow, for the men are not likely to find us very early, and they will hardly hear our pistols unless some of them happen to come in this direction." "Do you think, if we shoot two or three of them, the rest will go?" "Certainly not. It will be all the worse. Their comrades would at once tear them to pieces and devour them, and the scent of blood would very soon bring others to the spot." "Well, if we have got to wait here all night, Stanislas, we had better choose the most comfortable place we can, at once, before it gets dark. We must mind we don't go to sleep and tumble off." "There will be no fear of our sleeping," Stanislas said. "The cold will be too great for that. We shall have to keep on swinging our hands and feet, and rubbing our noses, to prevent ourselves from getting frostbitten." "Well, I have never felt the cold in these clothes," Charlie said. "No, sir, but you have never been out at night, sitting cramped on a tree." Hour after hour passed. Even in the darkness they could see the wolves lying in the snow below them, occasionally changing their position, keeping close together for warmth, and often snarling or growling angrily, as one or two shifted their position, and tried to squeeze in so as to get into a warm spot. The cold was intense and, in spite of swinging his legs and arms, Charlie felt that his vital heat was decreasing. "This is awful, Stanislas. I do not think we can last on till morning." "I begin to have doubts myself, sir. Perhaps it would be better to leap down and make a fight of it." "We might shoot some of them first," Charlie said. "How many charges have you?" "I have only two, besides one in the barrel." "And I have only three," Charlie said. "Powder has run very short. The captain was saying, yesterday, that we must send to the village and try to get some more. Still, six shots will help us." "Not much, sir. There must be thirty or forty of them now. I have seen some come from the other way. I suppose they were part of the pack that followed the horses." Charlie sat for some time thinking. Then he exclaimed: "I think this is a dead tree." "It is, sir. I noticed it when we climbed up. The head has gone, and I think it must have been struck with lightning last summer." "Then I think we can manage." "Manage what, sir?" the man asked in surprise. "Manage to make a fire, Stanislas. First of all, we will crawl out towards the ends of the branches as far as we can get, and break off twigs and small boughs. If we can't get enough, we can cut chips off, and we will pile them all where these three big boughs branch off from the trunk. We have both our tinderboxes with us, and I see no reason why we should not be able to light a fire up here." "So we might," Stanislas said eagerly. "But if we did, we might set the whole tree on fire." "No bad thing, either," Charlie rejoined. "You may be sure the fire will keep the wolves at a respectful distance, and we could get down and enjoy the heat without fear." "I believe your idea will save our lives, sir. Ten minutes ago I would not have given a crown for our chances." They at once crawled out upon two of the great branches, and a renewed chorus of snarls from below showed that their foes were watchful. The snapping of the small branches excited a certain amount of uneasiness among them, and they drew off a short distance. In ten minutes Charlie and his companion worked themselves back to the main trunk, each carrying an armful of twigs. They first cut off a number of small dry chips, and made a pile of these at the junction of one of the branches with the trunk. They then got out their tinderboxes and bunches of rags, shook a few grains of powder from one of the horns among the chips, and then got the tinder alight. A shred of rag, that had been rubbed with damp powder, was applied to the spark and then placed among the shavings. A flash of light sprang up, followed by a steady blaze, as the dried chips caught. One by one at first, and then, as the fire gained strength, several sticks at a time were laid over the burning splinters, and in five minutes a large fire was blazing. Charlie and his companion took their seats where the other two big branches shot out from the trunk. These were two or three feet higher than that on which the fire had been lighted, and, ere long, a sensation of genial warmth began to steal over them. Fresh sticks were lighted as the first were consumed, and before long the trunk, where the flames played on it, began to glow. Light tongues of flame rose higher and higher, until the trunk was alight ten or twelve feet up. "The wolves are all gone," Charlie said, looking down. "I don't suppose they have gone very far, sir. But when the tree once gets fairly alight, you may be sure they won't venture anywhere near it." They had already been forced to move some little distance away from the trunk, by the heat, and as the flames rose higher and higher, embracing in the course of half an hour the whole of the trunk and upper branches, they felt that it was perfectly safe to drop off into the snow beneath them. Blazing brands soon began to fall. They stood a short distance away, so as to be beyond the risk of accident, but, at Charlie's suggestion, they ran in from time to time, gathered up the brands and laid them at the foot of the trunk, and in a short time a second fire was kindled here. The tree was now a pyramid of fire, lighting up the snow for a long distance round. Outside this circle the wolves could be heard whining and whimpering, occasionally uttering a long-drawn howl. "They know that they are baulked of their prey," Stanislas said. "We shall have some of the big branches falling soon, and shall be able to keep up a roaring fire, that will last until daylight. I should think by that time the wolves will be tired of it, and will make off; but if not, the captain will be sure to send men out to search for us. He will guess we have been treed by wolves, and we have only to get into another tree, and fire our pistols, to bring them in this direction." "But they may be attacked, too," Charlie remarked. "There are ten of them, and they are sure to come armed with axes and swords. They ought to be able to fight their way through a good-sized pack. Besides, the wolves will be so cowed by this great fire, that I don't think they will have the courage to meddle with so strong a party." One by one the arms of the tree fell, burnt through at the point where they touched the trunk. They would have been far too heavy to be dragged, but three or four of them fell across the lower fire, and there lay blazing. Not knowing which way the tree itself would fall, Charlie and his companion were obliged to remain at some distance off, but the heat there was amply sufficient for them. At last the trunk fell with a crash, and they at once established themselves as near the fire as they could sit, without being scorched, and there chatted until morning began to break. They felt sure that some, at least, of the wolves were around them, as they occasionally caught sight of what looked like two sparks among the undergrowth; these being, as they knew, the reflection of the fire in the eyes of a wolf. There was a tree hard by in which they could, if necessary, take refuge, and they therefore resolved to stay near the fire. Fortunately the night had been perfectly still, and, as the tree they had fired was a detached one, the flames had not spread, as Charlie had at one time been afraid they would do. Half an hour after daylight had fairly broken, they discharged three shots at regular intervals with their pistols, then they waited half an hour. "Shall we fire again?" "No. Not until we hear shots from them," Charlie replied. "We have but four charges left, and if the wolves made a sudden rush, we might want to use them." After a time, both thought they heard the distant report of a musket. Stanislas looked at Charlie inquiringly. The latter shook his head. "No, no! Stanislas. That gun would be heard twice as far as one of these pistols. Let us wait until we are pretty sure that they are near. I don't like leaving ourselves without other protection than our axes." Chapter 13: A Rescued Party. After a considerable pause, a gun was again fired, this time much nearer to them. Charlie drew out his pistol and was about to reply, when his companion touched his arm. "Look!" he said. Charlie turned in time to see several gray forms flit rapidly between the bushes. He stepped to the edge of the road, and saw some wolves spring out through the bushes, and go straight along the road. "What can have scared them?" he asked, in surprise. "The gun was not near enough for that." "No, besides they would have fled deeper into the forest, instead of taking to the road. Perhaps they hear something coming." Almost at the same moment, two shots were heard in the direction towards which the wolves were making. "That is it!" Charlie excitedly exclaimed. "Another body of wolves have attacked a passing traveller. Heap the wood on, Stanislas. If we make a great fire, and they get as far as this, possibly they could spring off and take refuge here. At any rate, the brands will be better weapons even than our axes." The ends of such branches as they were able to move were brought together, and a few blows with their axes speedily broke off several of the outer ends of charred wood. These were thrown on, and the fire soon blazed up high again. Two more shots were heard, this time close at hand. They ran into the road. A sledge, with several figures in it, was coming along at full speed. It was almost surrounded by wolves, and, as they looked, two of them sprang at the horses' heads; but two shots again rung out, and they dropped backwards among their companions, many of whom threw themselves at once upon their bodies, while the sledge continued on its headlong course. "Here! here!" Charlie shouted at the top of his voice, waving his hands to show the direction which they were to take. A moment later the sledge dashed past them, and swept up to the fire. "Seize the blazing brands!" Charlie shouted, as those in the sledge threw themselves out. He and Stanislas rolled the two first wolves over with their pistols, and then joined the others. The driver had run at once to the horses, and had muffled them, by throwing his coat over the head of one, and a rug over the head of the other, and, though snorting and trembling in every limb, they stood quiet until he had thrown a head rope round each of their necks, and fastened them to the heaviest of the branches. Then he seized a handful of fallen leaves, which were exposed by the melting of the snow above them, and threw them into the fire, whence a dense smoke poured out. The wolves had again stopped to devour the two animals that had been shot, and this gave time to the men, by their united efforts, to move a heavy branch and place it across two others, whose ends lay in the fire, so as to form with them a sort of triangular breastwork, the face of which, next to them, was manned by the two travellers, their servants, Charlie, and Stanislas, with blazing brands. Charlie and his companion hastily loaded their pistols again. The two gentlemen had each rifles and a brace of pistols, as had their servants. A lady and child had been lifted from the sledge, and these crouched down at the angle by the fire. The sledge and the two horses protected one of the faces of the position, and the driver, at his master's orders, took his position on the front seat again, so as to shoot down any wolf that might try to attack the flank of the outside horse. The wolves looked doubtful at the appearance of the dense smoke rising up, but, after a little hesitation, they rushed to the attack. Four were rolled over by bullets from the rifles, and, as they came within a few yards, the pistols cracked out in rapid succession. As soon as these were all emptied, the six men caught up the blazing brands, and struck full in the faces of the wolves, shouting loudly as they did so. Seized with a momentary panic, the animals turned and fled, and then a fierce fight took place between the injured wolves and their companions. There was but just time to recharge the rifles and pistols, when they came on again. Although the fire of the defenders was as deadly as before, the wolves seemed this time determined to get at their victims. In vain were blows showered on their heads, while those who first sprang on the tree were stabbed with the knives the defenders held in their left hands. The contest could have had but one termination, when suddenly two shots were heard, and then, with loud shouts, a party of men burst through the forest, and with pistol and axe fell on the wolves. This unexpected onslaught had a decisive effect, and, with loud howls and yelps, the wolves turned and fled. Up to this time, not a word had been exchanged by the defenders, beyond Charlie's first shout of "Lay this branch across those two," and the order of one of the gentlemen to the coachman to take his place in the sledge--where he had done his work well, for four wolves lay dead by the flank of the outside horse. Several of those that had sprung at the heads of the horses had been shot or cut down by the master, who had placed himself close to them, and the horses' thick mufflings had saved them from any serious injury. As soon as the wolves fled, the gentleman turned to Charlie, and, flinging down his weapons, threw his arms round his neck. "You have preserved us from death, sir. You have saved my wife and child from being torn to pieces. How can I express my thanks to you?" "It was fortunate that we happened to be here," Charlie said, "and that we had this fire handy." A cry from the child called off the gentleman's attention, and he ran to his wife, who had sunk fainting on the ground; and Charlie, not a little pleased at this diversion, turned to Ladislas and his men, who were looking on with the most intense astonishment at the scene. Charlie leapt over the branch, and grasped Ladislas by the hand. "You have arrived at the nick of time, Ladislas. Another three minutes, and it would have been all over with us." "Yes, I could see it was a close thing as soon as I caught sight of you. We have been wondering all night what became of you, and set out as soon as it was light. We fired a shot occasionally, but we listened in vain for your three shots." "We fired them half an hour after daylight," Charlie said; "but, as we had then only five charges left between us, and there were wolves all round, we dared not waste them." "We heard firing at last," the captain went on. "First two shots faintly, then two nearer, and a minute later two others. We knew then that you must be engaged with wolves, and we were running as hard as we could in the direction of the shots, when we heard a number fired close together. Of course we could make nothing of it, but on we ran. Then there was another outbreak of firing, this time quite close. A moment later we caught sight of a confused mass. There was a fire, and a sledge with two horses, and a man standing up in it shooting; and we could see a desperate fight going on with the wolves in front, so Alexander and Hugo fired their pieces into the thick of them. We set up a yell, and went at them with our axes, yet I did not feel by any means sure that they would not be too many for us. "But what on earth does it all mean? And how is it that you have lived through the night? We had no expectation of finding you alive. However, that fire tells its own tale, as though nothing less than burning up a big tree would content you." "I will tell you all, presently. It is too long a story now. Let us help these travellers to go their way, before the wolves rally again." "They will not do that," the captain said confidently. "If it was night, they might hang about the neighbourhood, but they are cowardly beasts in the daytime, and easily scared. They are still going away at their best pace, I will be bound." While Charlie was speaking to Ladislas, one of the travellers had been talking to Stanislas, who, in answer to his question, had informed him that he was in Charlie's service, and that the latter was an English gentleman, who had, from a variety of circumstances, especially the suspicion with which all strangers were regarded, been unable to travel through the country, and had therefore been passing the winter hunting, with this company of disbanded soldiers who had so opportunely arrived to their assistance. The other traveller had, by this time, carried his wife beyond the heat of the fire, and had applied some snow to her forehead, pouring a little brandy from the flask between her lips. She had now begun to revive, and, leaving her, he approached the party. His brother met him, and in a few words told him what he had learned from Stanislas. "My friends," he said, "my brother tells me that you are a party of discharged soldiers, who are passing the winter in a hut here in the forest, supporting yourselves by shooting and fishing. I have to thank Providence for the thought that sent you here. I have to thank you for your prompt assistance, to which we are indebted for our lives. "I am Count Nicholas Staroski, and can at least make a substantial return for the service you have done me. My estates lie some sixty miles to the north. You will have no difficulty in finding me. Present yourselves there at Easter. I shall certainly be at my chateau then. I will then talk over what can be done for you. Those who like to settle down on land shall have land, those who would like employment in my household shall have it, those who would prefer money to go their own way and settle in their own villages shall each have a heavy purse." Then he turned to Charlie. "You, sir, as my brother has learned from your brave follower here, are an English gentleman. To you I owe far heavier obligation than to these soldiers, for you and your man incurred a terrible risk, and well-nigh sacrificed your lives for ours. I pray you come with us, and stay with us for a time. I shall then hear your plans, and your object in visiting this country, and if I can in any way further them, you may be sure I will do so to the utmost; for the present, I can promise you at least excellent hunting, and the heartiest welcome." "I thank you very heartily, Count Staroski, and accept gladly your invitation; but I must first speak to the captain of these men, to whom I am much beholden for the kindness he has shown me." He went across to Ladislas, who had heard what was said. "You will not think it ungrateful for me to quit you so suddenly, Ladislas," he said in a low voice. "Assuredly not. You have done us a service, indeed, in thus enabling us to obtain favour with the count. He is one of our richest and most powerful nobles, and our fortunes are as good as made." "I will introduce you to him personally," Charlie said. "This, count, is the leader of the party. He has shown me very great kindness, and has proved a true friend. From what I have seen of him, I have no doubt whatever that, in spite of certain acts of lawlessness to which he and his friends have been driven of late, you will find him, in any position you may be good enough to give him, an honest and thoroughly trustworthy man." "I will bear it in mind," the count said. "Now, the sooner we are off, the better. How far is it to the next village?" "About seven miles, count." The count gave orders for the sledge to be taken on to the road again. "One moment," the captain said, taking Charlie aside. "Pray tell us, in a few words, what has happened. The burning of the tree is a mystery to us, and we shall die of curiosity if we have to remain here for another two months with the matter unexplained." In as few words as possible, Charlie related to the men the story of the preceding night, which was greeted with exclamations of surprise and admiration. "Truly, you have your wits about you," the captain said. "I should have been frozen to death, if I had been in your position, for I should certainly never have thought of lighting a fire up in a tree. "Well, goodbye, if we do not see you again, may all good fortune attend you, and may the saints protect you from all danger." Charlie shook hands with the men all round, and then hurried down to the sledge. The coachman was already in the front seat, the countess and her child had taken their places, and the two armed servants and Stanislas were standing behind, in readiness to jump on to a board fastened above the runners. "I must apologize for keeping you waiting, countess," Charlie said as he ran up. "I had to explain to my friends, in a few words, how this had all come about." "We are also longing to know," the count said. "But I have not yet introduced you to my wife, nor have I learned the name of the gentleman to whom I owe so much." "Ah, sir," the young countess said, holding out her hand after Charlie had given his name, "what do we not owe you? I shall never forget it all, never." "We will talk when we have started, Feodora. Let us get out of this forest as soon as we can." He took his place beside his wife, and set the child on his knees; his brother and Charlie sitting opposite to him. The servants spread a bearskin rug over their knees, and then jumped into their places, as the driver cracked his whip, and the horses started. "You must think us almost mad to be driving through the forest, at this time of the year," the count said to Charlie. "But the countess is a Russian. We have been staying two months at her father's place, a hundred miles to the east. My two youngest children are at home, and two days since a message arrived, saying that one of them was dangerously ill. We had heard, of course, many tales of the numbers and fierceness of the wolves, but we hoped that, by travelling only by day and with excellent horses, there was not much to fear, especially as we were five armed men. "We fell in with a few wolves yesterday, but beat them off easily enough. Last night, we stopped at a little village in the forest. They certainly made me feel uneasy there, with their tales about the wolves, but there was no help for it. We started as soon as day broke, and had driven some fifteen miles, before we came up to you. We had not gone five when the wolves began to show themselves. "At first, they kept well behind us, but presently we came upon a large number, who joined in near where we saw an overturned sledge, with the snow stained with blood all round it. From there we kept up a running fight, and must have killed a score; but their numbers increased, rather than diminished, and when a fresh pack came up from ahead, a quarter of a mile before we saw you, it looked as if our case was hopeless; for the horses, which had been going at the top of their speed from the time we started, were beginning to flag, while the wolves were fast closing in upon us, and were just beginning to attack the horses, when I saw you in the road. "And now, pray tell us how you came to be there so opportunely, and how it was that you had that great fire blazing." Charlie gave the full history of the previous night's adventure. "Wonderful!" the count and his brother exclaimed; and the former went on: "I have heard many stories of escapes from wolves, but never one like yours. It was an admirable thought, indeed, that of at once obtaining heat and frightening the wolves away, by setting the tree on fire. That thought saved our lives as well as your own, for our fate would have been the same as those unfortunate travellers, whose horses you saw, and who brought the wolves upon you. "And now, sir, would it be impertinent to ask for what purpose you have come to Poland? Believe me, I only put the question in order to see if I can in any way be of assistance to you." "I do not know, count, whether my avowal will affect you unfavourably, but I know that it will make no difference in your conduct towards me. I am, as my servant told you, an Englishman by birth; but I and my father were obliged, in consequence of political opinions, to leave the country, and I am now a captain in the service of Charles of Sweden." Exclamations of surprise broke from his hearers. "Well, sir," the count said, smiling, "as his majesty King Charles, although not yet one-and-twenty, is one of the greatest generals in Europe, I cannot consider it strange that you, who appear to me to be no older, should be a captain in his service. But I own that I pictured, to myself, that the officers of these wonderful soldiers were fierce-looking men, regular iron veterans." "I am but eighteen," Charlie said, "and I myself feel it absurd that I should be a captain. It is but two years since I was appointed an ensign, and the king happening to be with my company, when we had a sharp fight with the Russians, he rewarded us by having us made into a regiment; so each of us got promotion. I was appointed captain last May, as a reward for a suggestion that turned out useful." "May I ask what it was, Captain Carstairs, for it seems to me that you are full of happy ideas?" "King Charles, as you may have heard, speaks freely to officers and soldiers as he moves about the camp. I was standing on the edge of the river, looking across at the Saxons, on the day before we made the passage, when the king came up and spoke to me. He said there was no hope of our passage being covered--as our advance against the Russians at Narva had been--by a snowstorm; and I said that, as the wind was at our backs, if we were to set fire to the great straw stacks the smoke would hide our movements from the Saxons. The idea was a very simple one, and would no doubt have occurred to the king himself; however, he put it into execution with success, and was good enough, afterwards, to promote me to the rank of captain." "So it was owing to you that our army--or rather the Saxon army, for but few Poles were engaged in the battle--was defeated," the count said, smiling. "Well, sir, it will do you no harm with us, for personally we are entirely opposed to Augustus of Saxony. But you have not yet explained how you, an officer in the Swedish service, came to be here." "I was sent by King Charles to Warsaw, to ascertain the feeling of the trading classes there. I had an introduction to a Scottish merchant, and I passed as a countryman of his, who had come out to enter his business. One of the objects of my mission was to endeavour to induce the foreign merchants in Warsaw to do what they could to promote a feeling in favour of peace with the Swedes, and the substitution of another king in place of Augustus." "It is not very clear, Captain Carstairs, how you can be fulfilling that object by passing your winter with a party of robbers--for I suppose your disbanded soldiers were little better--in a forest on the confines of Russia." Charlie laughed. "It is rather a long story, count. Perhaps you will kindly tell me the news about public affairs, first." "By no means," the count said. "That is a long story, too, and my wife would much rather hear yours than listen to it. She has not yet recovered from the events of this morning. But we will wait until we are at the village. We have left the forest behind us, and another half hour will take us to Stromoff, where we can get pretty good accommodation." The horses, a splendid pair of animals, had, during their passage through the forest, shown every sign of fear; starting nervously, swerving, and going in sharp, sudden rushes, and always needing a constant strain on the reins to keep them from bolting. Once away from the trees, however, they settled down into a fast trot, and the seven miles to Stromoff were done in less than half an hour. No sooner did the landlord of the inn learn the name of his guest, than he, his wife, and sons bustled about in the greatest haste to make things comfortable for them. Huge fires were lighted in the guest rooms, and the common room was cleared of the other customers, until the chamber should be sufficiently warmed for occupation; while in the kitchen preparations were made for a meal, to which, in half an hour from their arrival, the party in the sledge sat down. When this was over, settles were placed round the fire, and Charlie then gave a full account of his adventures, from the time he was attacked in the streets of Warsaw. "So it was you, Captain Carstairs, after whom there was so keen a search in September. The death of Ben Soloman made a great stir, and I can assure you that there are a great many people who owe you a debt of gratitude. The man had no sons, and all his property passed to his widow, whom he had, it seems, treated harshly during his lifetime. She was from Holland, and wished to return to her people, so, as his means were very large, she made the easiest terms with all those on whose estates her husband had held mortgages, in order to wind up her affairs as soon as possible. Thus, his death was the subject of wide rejoicings. However, if you had been caught at the time, I fear it would have gone hard with you; for the Jews were all very keen about it--as the man, rascal though he was, was one of the chief heads of their religion--and were you to fall into their hands in any of the towns, they would either kill you or send you to Warsaw." "And now, sir, will you tell me what has taken place since September?" "Things have moved slowly. Augustus endeavoured, after his defeat on the Dwina, to make peace with Charles on his own account, and without the knowledge of the diet, but Charles refused to give audience to any of his agents, and would not even see the beautiful Countess of Konigsmark, who is, you know, herself a Swede, and whom Augustus sent, thinking that her blandishments might win over the young king. It was useless. Charles maintained the ground that he took up from the first--namely, that he would treat with the diet, but would have nothing whatever to say to Augustus. So the diet sent an embassy of four senators. "Instead of receiving them with every pomp and ceremony, as they expected, the king met them on horseback. He demanded that, as a first condition, they should dethrone Augustus. Parties in the diet were pretty equally divided; but the proposal was rejected, for even those most hostile to Augustus resented the proposal that we, a free and unconquered people, should be ordered by a foreign prince to change our king. So nothing came of it. "The Swedish army advanced a certain distance into Poland, and there were a great number of skirmishes, but there has been no serious fighting, nor is there much chance of any, until the snow has gone and the country dried up in the spring. At present, Augustus is quarrelling with the diet, who still set themselves against the importation of more Saxon troops. But doubtless, before the campaign begins in earnest, he will have settled matters with the senators, and will have his own way in that respect. There is, however, little chance of the diet agreeing to call out the whole forces of the country, and the next battle will, like the last, be between the Swedes and the Saxons, who may have with them perhaps a few thousand Poles, belonging to the king's party." "You don't belong to the king's party, count?" "No. I, like the majority of our nobles, have no interest whatever in the war, for we were never consulted before it began. It is an affair between Saxony and the Swedes. Let them fight it out. It would be a bad day for Poland, if Augustus and the Russians were to overcome and despoil Sweden. We want no addition of territory, for that would be to strengthen our kings against us. We see the trouble caused by Augustus having Saxony at his command, and if he had other territory, the country would be divided into two parts, one of which would have nothing in common with the other. "Still less do we wish to see Russia gain territory to the north of us. Hitherto we have thought but little of the Muscovites, but this war has shown that they can put great armies into the field, and the czar is making them into a nation which may some day be formidable to us. "Charles has sent every assurance that he has no ill will towards Poland, and is an enemy not of the country but of its king--who had formed a coalition against him in a time of profound peace--and that his hostility will altogether cease with the overthrow and expulsion of Augustus. So you see, we who live at a distance from the capital, and hold ourselves altogether aloof from the intrigues of court, look on at the fray as if it were one in which we have no part or lot. If Augustus drives out the Swedes, we shall probably have trouble with him afterwards. If Charles drives out Augustus, we shall have a fresh king, and shall no doubt choose one upon the recommendation of Charles, who will then march away again, leaving us to manage our own affairs. Therefore, we have no animosity whatever against you as a Swedish officer, but for comfort's sake it is better that nothing should be said of this, and that I should introduce you to my friends simply as an English gentleman, who has rendered me the greatest possible service." The countess retired to bed, a short time after they had finished their meal, and the others sat up talking until late in the evening. Charlie learnt that the country was still in a greatly disturbed state. Parties of disbanded soldiers and others, rendered desperate by cold and hardship, were everywhere plundering the peasantry, and many encounters had taken place between them and the nobles, who, with their retainers, had marched against them. Travel would be dangerous for a long time to come. "Therefore, until the spring, you must not think of moving," the count said. "Indeed, I think that your best plan, when you start, will be to work due north, and join the Swedish forces near Narva. It will be shorter as well as less dangerous. Still, we can talk of that later on." The next morning they started early, and arrived in the afternoon at the chateau of the count. It was not a fortified building, for the Poles differed from the western nations, abstaining from fortifying their towns and residences, upon the ground that they were a free people, capable of defending their country from foreign invasion, and therefore requiring no fortified towns, and that such places added to the risks of civil war, and enabled factions to set the will of the nation at defiance. The building was a large one, but it struck Charlie as being singularly plain and barn-like in comparison with the residences of country gentlemen in England. A number of retainers ran out as they drove up into the courtyard, and exclamations of surprise and dismay rose, as the wounds on the horses' flanks and legs were visible; and when, in a few words, the count told them that they had been attacked by wolves, and had been saved principally by the English gentleman and his follower, the men crowded round Charlie, kissed his hands, and in other ways tried to show their gratitude for his rescue of their master and mistress. "Come along," the count said, taking his arm and leading him into the house. "The poor fellows mean well, and you must not be vexed with them." The countess's first question had been for her child, and with an exclamation of thankfulness, when she heard that it was better, she had at once hurried into the house. As soon as they had entered, the count left Charlie in charge of his brother, and also hurried away. He was not long before he returned. "The child is doing well," he said, "and now that it has got its mother again, it will, I think, improve rapidly. The doctor said this morning that he considered it out of danger, but that it needed its mother sorely, to cheer and pet it." In a very short time the tables were laid. The count, his brother, and Charlie sat at an upper table, and the hall was filled with the various officers and retainers. The count's arrival was expected, for a horseman had been sent forward on their arrival at the inn the evening before. The dinner had therefore been cooked in readiness, and Charlie was astonished at the profusion with which it was served. Fish, joints, great pies, and game of many kinds were placed on the table in unlimited quantities; the drink being a species of beer, although excellent wine was served at the high table. He could now understand how often the Polish nobles impoverished themselves by their unbounded hospitality and love of display. "I suppose, for tomorrow, you will like to remain quiet," the count said, "but after that we will try to amuse you. There is game of all sorts to be shot, or if you have had enough sport, lately, there will be a sledge and horses at your disposal, whenever you choose to ride or drive, and in a few days we will give an entertainment, in honour at once of our return, your visit, and the child's restoration to health. Then you will have an opportunity of seeing our national dances." Charlie had had enough shooting, but he greatly enjoyed the drives in the sledges, behind the spirited horses. The entertainment came off a fortnight after his arrival at the chateau. The guests, for the most part, arrived early in the afternoon, many having driven in from great distances. The preparations had been on an immense scale, and the scene at night was a brilliant one. Never had Charlie seen anything like the magnificence of the dresses, not of the ladies only, but also of the gentlemen; the Poles having the true oriental love for rich costumes, a taste that their national dress permitted them to gratify to the utmost. Next to the splendour of the dresses, Charlie was surprised at the grace and spirit of the dancing, which was far more vivacious than that of western nations. The Poles were long considered to be the best dancers in the world. It was their great national amusement; and all danced, from noble to peasant, entering into it with spirit and enthusiasm, and uniting the perfection of rhythmical motion with the grace and ease peculiar to them, and to their kinsmen the Hungarians. The dancing was kept up, with unflagging energy, during the whole night; and then, after a substantial breakfast, the men and women were muffled up in furs, and took their places in the sledges. The count would gladly have had Charlie remain with him until spring began, but he was anxious to rejoin the army; and, seeing that this was so, the count did everything in his power to facilitate his journey, which, after talking it over, had been decided should be direct towards the royal camp. The count's brother insisted upon accompanying him on the journey, as in this way many of the difficulties would be avoided. Two sledges were prepared, the one for the use of Charlie and Count John, and the other for the two servants and baggage. Both were horsed by the fastest animals in the count's stables. Charlie himself had been loaded with presents, which he had been obliged somewhat reluctantly to accept, as he saw that a refusal would hurt and mortify his kind hosts. He had, on his arrival, been provided with an ample wardrobe of clothes of all kinds, and to these were now added dolmans, cloaks, rugs, and most costly furs. A splendid gun, pistols, and a sword, with the hilt studded with gems, completed his outfit; while Stanislas had been presented with a heavy purse of money. The whole of the retainers of the castle were assembled to see them start, and the count and countess, at parting, made him promise to come and pay them another visit, if the fortune of war should bring him within the possibility of reaching them. The journey was a delightful one. Each night they put up at the chateau of some nobleman. To many of these Count John Staroski was personally known; at the others, his name secured at once a hearty welcome for himself and his companion. Travelling only by day, and at the full speed of the horses, they escaped interruption by the marauding bands, and in fourteen days after starting they drove into the town where Charles of Sweden had his headquarters, after being twice stopped and questioned by bodies of Swedish horse. The town was crowded with troops, and they had some difficulty in finding a lodging for themselves, and stabling for the horses. As soon as this was done, Charlie proceeded alone to the quarters of Count Piper. Chapter 14: The Battle Of Clissow. Charlie sent in his name, and was shown in at once. "I am glad, indeed, to see you, Captain Carstairs," the minister said, as he entered. "We had given you up for lost. We heard first that you had been murdered in the streets of Warsaw. A month later, a man brought a letter to me from your Scotch friend Ramsay, to say that you were accused of the murder of a Jew trader, a man, it seems, of some importance in Warsaw. Ramsay said that you were in the company of a band of brigands, and that the man who went with you as your servant had joined you, and had taken you some money. He forwarded the letter you had sent him explaining your position, and said he thought that, upon the whole, it was the best thing you could have done, as a vigorous search had been set on foot, at the instance of the Jews, and there would have been but little chance of your making your way through the country alone. He added that he felt confident that, if alive, you would manage somehow to rejoin us before the campaign opened in the spring. "I am glad that you have been able to do so, but your appearance, at present, is rather that of a wealthy Polish noble, than of a companion of brigands." "I was able to do some service to Count Staroski, as, when travelling with his wife and child, and his brother, Count John, he was attacked by a pack of wolves. I have been staying with him for some weeks, and his brother has now had the kindness to accompany me here. He has thereby made my passage through the country easy, as we have travelled with fast horses in his sledge, and have always put up at the chateaux of nobles of his acquaintance. I have, therefore, avoided all risk of arrest at towns. In the letter forwarded to you I explained the real circumstances of the death of the Jew." "Yes, we quite understood that, Captain Carstairs. You had a very narrow escape from death at his hands, and, as the danger was incurred purely in the king's service, it will not be forgotten. Up to the time when the Jew organized the attack upon you in Warsaw, I was well satisfied with your reports of your work. So far nothing has come of it, as Augustus has been too strong for any movement against him, but we hope, ere long, to defeat him so decisively that our friends will be able to declare against him. I will inform the king of your return, and I have no doubt he will be glad to hear your story from your own lips. He loves tales of adventure, and time hangs somewhat heavily on hand, as, until the frost breaks, nothing can be done in the field." On the following day, indeed, Charlie was sent for to the royal quarters, and had to recount the story of his adventures in full to the king, who was highly interested in them, and at the conclusion requested him to introduce Count John Staroski, in order that he might express to him his obligation for the service he had rendered to one of his officers. This done, Charlie drove out with the count to the village where Colonel Jamieson's regiment was quartered, and where his return was received with delight by Harry, and with great pleasure by Major Jervoise and his fellow officers. He was obliged to give a short outline of what he had been doing since he left, but put off going into details for a future occasion. "And are you coming back to us now, Charlie?" Harry asked. "Certainly. My success in the diplomatic way was not sufficiently marked for them to be likely to employ me in that line again. We must return this afternoon, as the king has invited us both to sup with him tonight." Two days later, Count John Staroski started upon his return journey, much pleased with the reception he had met with from the King of Sweden, and determined to work vigorously, among the nobles of his acquaintance, to bring about the dethronement of Augustus of Saxony. Charlie had already seen Count Piper, who had told him that, although the king and himself were both well satisfied with the work he had done, there was not at present any mission of the same sort on which he could be employed. Indeed, it was evident that, until the Saxons had been decisively defeated, political action would be useless, and that, therefore, for the present he could either remain at headquarters, or rejoin his regiment. Charlie at once chose the latter alternative. "Very well, Captain Carstairs, you can rejoin when you like, but remember I may claim your services again. You see, now that you have acquired a knowledge of Polish, your value for this sort of work is largely increased." As soon as the frost had broken, the Swedish army commenced its advance. Skirmishes frequently took place, but Augustus had, as yet, no army with which he could meet them in the field, and he summoned a diet at Warsaw, in hopes of persuading the Poles to decide upon calling out the whole national force. In this he failed altogether. The citizens, led by the foreign traders, were already openly opposed to him, and their attitude so encouraged his opponents in the diet, that many of these rose and openly denounced the government, and the conduct of the king, that had brought the country into its present difficulties. As the Swedish army advanced, they were joined by the Duke of Holstein, and, in spite of the efforts of a considerable body of the enemy, under Prince Wisniowiski, progressed steadily, crossed the river Memel, and, when near Grodno, were met by an embassy sent by the diet, to endeavour to persuade Charles not to advance further. An interview took place between the king, the Poles, and his ministers, the conversation on both sides being in Latin. But as the ambassadors had no definite plans to propose, and their leaders were wholly devoted to Augustus, the king refused to allow his advance to be arrested, and continued his march. When near Praga they crossed the plain where Charles Gustavus, King of Sweden, had defeated the Polish army in a great battle, that had lasted for three days. The city was occupied, and a contribution of 20,000 crowns imposed upon it, in addition to food for the army while it remained there. Plundering, however, was strictly forbidden, and, as the king issued a proclamation declaring that he was no enemy of the Polish Republic, but simply of their king, the inhabitants were, on the whole, well satisfied with the conduct of the invaders. A halt was made here for some time, and a bridge was thrown across the Vistula, while the army rested after the long and fatiguing marches it had made. A fresh attempt was made to arrest the advance of the Swedes, and the Cardinal Primate, himself, met the king; but nothing came of the negotiations, and the army entered Warsaw. Here they were warmly received, and great entertainments were given to the king. Towards the end of June, they again advanced to meet the force that Augustus had gathered, and on the 6th of July the Swedes arrived within a few miles of Clissow. The next day some reinforcements arrived, and the king decided to give battle on the following day, which was the anniversary of the victory on the Dwina, the previous year. His army was twelve thousand strong, while that of Augustus was nearly double that strength, and was very strongly posted, his camp being surrounded by morasses, although situated on rising ground which commanded the whole of the country round it. The bogs in the front were found to be so impassable, that the Swedes were forced to make a circuit to the left, where the ground was firmer. This movement obliged the enemy also to change front, a movement that caused considerable confusion, as they themselves were forced to traverse boggy ground, to take up a new position facing that by which the Swedes would now advance. The attack was commenced by the division commanded by the Duke of Holstein, but, scarcely had he set his troops in motion than he was mortally wounded, by a ball from a falconet. His troops, however, pushed forward vigorously. The Polish division opposed to them resisted the two first assaults bravely, but gave way at the third attack, and were driven from the ground, in such confusion that they took no further part in the engagement. While this was going on, the Saxon cavalry had been repulsed by that of Charles, and, passing in their retreat under the fire of three infantry regiments, suffered so heavily that they left the field. The Swedish foot now advanced all along the line, and in the centre destroyed several battalions of Saxons. But the Swedish right was attacked so vigorously by the Saxon left, under Field Marshal Steinau, that for a time the conflict was doubtful. The Swedish horse guards and other cavalry, however, charged with such determination that the Saxon horse on this flank were also defeated, and driven off the field, while the Swedish infantry, advancing without firing, drove several battalions of Saxon foot into a village, where, being surrounded, almost all were killed or taken prisoners. The Saxon horse, gathering once more, attempted bravely to retrieve the fate of the day, and engaged the Swedish horse with such desperate valour, that a considerable portion of the Saxon infantry were enabled, under cover of the conflict, to draw off, cross the morasses, and make their escape. The battle lasted four hours, and had been, throughout, severely contested. The Saxons lost four thousand killed and wounded, and three thousand taken prisoners, while the Swedes had eleven hundred killed and wounded. Forty-eight cannon were captured by the victors, together with all the baggage and waggons. The death of the Duke of Holstein, a gallant prince who was exceedingly popular with the army, and beloved by the king, cast a gloom over this great victory, which virtually laid Poland at the feet of the victors, and insured the fulfilment of the object for which Charles had persisted in the war. Jamieson's regiment had been on the left wing, but, as it had been held in reserve, to strengthen the line at any point at which it might give way, the Scotch had taken but a small share in the fighting, and had but thirty men killed and wounded by the shot and bullets that passed over the heads of the fighting line. The captain of one of the companies was among those killed, and Charlie, who had, since he rejoined the regiment, been doing duty as lieutenant, now took the vacant place. The army still advanced. Augustus sent in several proposals for peace, but these were all rejected. The Saxons had speedily rallied after the battle, but were not in a position to oppose the advance of the victorious Swedes, who occupied Cracow without meeting with any resistance. Seeing that Augustus would not be strong enough to hazard another pitched battle, Charles had, on the morning after the victory, ordered three of his regiments, of which Jamieson's was one, to march with all speed to reinforce Major General Schlippenbach, who had sent an urgent request for aid, as he heard that the Russian army, fifty thousand strong, was preparing to cross the frontier; and as he had but six thousand, he could not hope to oppose their advance successfully. As the king's orders enjoined the troops to march with the greatest possible speed, they performed the journey back to Warsaw in four days, although the distance exceeded a hundred miles. Mounted messengers had been sent on before them, and, on reaching the town, they found boats already prepared to take them down the river to Danzic, where orders had already been sent for ships to be in readiness to convey them to Revel. The fatigues since the campaign opened had been severe, and the troops all enjoyed the long days of rest, while the craft that conveyed them dropped quietly down the Vistula. Then came the short sea passage. On their arrival at Revel, bad news met them. They had come too late. On the 16th of July the Russian army had passed the frontier, and the Swedes had tried to oppose them at the passage of the river Embach; but the water was low, from the effects of a long drought, and the Russians were enabled to ford it at several points. The Swedes fell upon those who first crossed, and for two hours repulsed their attacks, obtaining at some points considerable advantage, and capturing some guns, but, as fresh reinforcements poured across the river, the tide of battle turned. The Russian cavalry drove back the Swedish horse, who, as they retreated, rode through the infantry and threw them into disorder. These were attacked by the Russians before they could recover from their confusion, and were almost entirely destroyed or taken prisoners. The general, and many of the mounted officers, effected their escape, rallied the broken cavalry, and fell back towards Revel. The Russians spread over the country and plundered it, burning the little town of Valk, murdering its inhabitants, and carrying off into slavery the whole of the population who fell into their hands. The arrival of the three regiments was hailed with much satisfaction by the people of Revel, who feared that the Russians might besiege the town. They did not, however, approach within many miles, but, after completely wasting the country, retired across the frontier. The victory that had been gained over the Swedes at Embach, and the destruction of the greater part of General Schlippenbach's force, enabled the czar to turn his arms against Ingria, the extreme eastern province of Sweden, which included the shores of Lake Ladoga and the whole of the coast of the Baltic between Narva and Finland. Urgent messages were sent by the governor of that province to General Schlippenbach, requesting him to send him aid, as he had not even sufficient men to garrison the walled towns. The general was, however, afraid that Narva would be again besieged, and he therefore dared not reduce his small force to any considerable degree, but drew one company from each of the three regiments, and embarked them on board a ship for the mouth of the Neva. As there seemed little prospect of service, for a time, near Revel, all the officers were eager that their company should be chosen for the service in Ingria. Colonel Jamieson therefore said: "I do not wish to choose one company more than another; all can equally be depended upon. Therefore, I think the fairest way will be to draw lots as to which shall go." The lot fell upon Charlie's company, which therefore formed part of the expedition. On reaching the mouth of the Neva, they heard that the town of Notteburg, situated at the point where the Neva issues from the lake, was already besieged by the Russians, and that the Swedish vessels on the lake had been obliged to come down the river. A fort had been raised by the Russians on the bank, to prevent succour being conveyed into the town, and two thousand men had crossed the river and occupied a small redoubt on the northern side, so that the town was completely invested. The newly-arrived force was ordered to march, at once, with a hundred horse and four field pieces, the whole under the command of Major Sion, who was well acquainted with the country. "What do you think of this expedition, Captain Carstairs?" his lieutenant, John Bowyer, asked him. "I would rather be back with King Charles," Charlie replied. "Of course, I don't know the geography of the place, but if the Russians keep their eyes at all open, I don't see how a force like ours, with cavalry and guns, can hope to enter the town unnoticed. The addition of the horsemen seems to me altogether ridiculous, as they could be no good whatever, if they did enter the town. As for those four field pieces, they will hamper our march; and as they say the Russians have already some forty cannon in position about the town, those little pieces would be useless. "Four hundred infantry, making the attempt at night under good guidance, might manage to slip into the place, but this procession of ours is, to my mind, tempting destruction, for we certainly cannot hope to cut our way, by force, through the whole Russian army. "But even if we do get inside the town, our plight can be no better. The Russians' cannon are bombarding it, night and day, and more batteries are in course of erection, and Schlippenbach the governor, who is, I believe, a brother of the general, has but a few pieces to reply to them. "Were there an army advancing to the relief of the place, it would be different altogether, for our reinforcement might be of vital importance in repelling assaults, until aid arrived. But there is no hope of aid. The king's army is some nine hundred miles away, and his hands are full. General Schlippenbach has sent as many men as he could spare. They say there are at least twenty thousand Russians round the town, and where is an army to come from that can compel them to raise the siege? To my mind, we shall either be destroyed making our way into the town, or, if we do get in, shall be made prisoners of war, if not massacred--for the Russians have but vague ideas as to giving quarter--when the town falls, which may be a fortnight hence." "It seems a bad lookout, altogether," the lieutenant remarked. "Very much so. The best possible thing that could befall us would be for the Russians to make us out, before we get too far into their lines, in which case we may be able to fall back before they can gather in overwhelming strength, and may thus draw off without any very great loss." Major Sion called the captains of the infantry companies, and the troop of horse, to a sort of council of war, when the little force halted for an hour at three o'clock in the afternoon. "We have another ten miles to march, gentlemen, and I should like to ask your opinion as to whether it would be best to try to force our way in as soon as we get there, or to halt at a distance of three or four miles from the Russians, and make our effort at daybreak before they are fairly afoot." The other three officers gave their opinion in order of seniority, and all advocated the plan of falling upon the Muscovites at daybreak. "And what do you think, Captain Carstairs?" Major Sion asked Charlie. "I regret to say, major, that my opinion differs from that of the other gentlemen, and this for several reasons. In the first place, if we halt so near the Russians, our presence in their neighbourhood may be betrayed by a peasant, and we may be surprised in the night. If no such mishap should take place, we should have to be on foot two hours before sunrise. I in no way doubt your knowledge of the road, but it is at all times difficult to make out a mere track, like that we are following, at night, and in the morning we might well find ourselves involved in the Russian intrenchments, from which we could not extricate ourselves before a large force had gathered round us, in which case we must be all either killed or taken prisoners. My own suggestion would be that we should remain here another two hours, and then continue our march so as to reach the spot, where we are to endeavour to break through their line, about sunset. Should we be observed, as we most likely should be, we might at that hour be taken for a freshly-arrived body of Russian troops. There would be no risk of losing our way, and we might hope to be close upon them before we were discovered to be enemies. If we succeed, as I trust we shall, in breaking our way through and reaching the town, well and good. If, on the other hand, we find greater obstacles than we expect, and are forced to fall back fighting, we shall have the advantage that darkness will be setting in. The Russians, the greater part of whom will be ignorant of our strength, will lose time before they move, fearing they may be assaulted in other quarters, and in the darkness we might be able to make good our escape, which it is certain none of us would do, should we meet with a repulse at daybreak." "Your reasons are very just, Captain Carstairs. Though certainly my opinion was in accordance with that given by your fellow officers, I am bound to say that your argument seems unanswerable. "What say you, gentlemen? I have two objects in view--the first to reinforce the garrison of Notteburg, the second to save the troops under my command, if I should fail in doing so. I know the country well, but its features will be considerably altered. Trees will have been cut down, houses levelled, intrenchments thrown up, camps scattered here and there, and I own that in the dark, I might, as Captain Carstairs says, very easily miss my way. I think his proposal therefore unites the greatest chances of getting through their line and entering the town, with a possibility of drawing off the troops without great loss, in case of failure." The other three officers at once agreed, and orders were issued for the men to lie down until five o'clock and rest themselves before pursuing their march. It was past that hour before they were in motion again. Major Sion, with a peasant from the neighbourhood of Notteburg, rode ahead. Then came the troop of cavalry, with the guns close behind them, followed by the infantry. As they approached the Russian lines, the peasant several times went on in advance, and presently a trooper rode down the line, with the order that the troops with firearms were to light their matches, and the spearmen to keep in a compact body. They were now not far from the Russian lines, and the destruction that had been wrought during the last ten days was visible to them. Every tree and bush had been felled, for use in the intrenchments or for the erection of shelters. A few blackened walls alone showed where houses had stood. Gardens had been destroyed, and orchards levelled. Light smoke could be seen rising at many points from the Russian fires, and, when the troops were halted, they were but half a mile from the intrenchments. Word was passed down that the rapid Swedish march was to be moderated, and that they were to move carelessly and at a slow rate, as if fatigued by a long march, and that the spears were to be carried at the trail, as they were so much longer than those used by the Russians that their length would, if carried erect, at once betray the nationality of the troops. There was no attempt at concealment, for the cavalry would be visible for a considerable distance across the flat country. Considerable bodies of men could be seen, gathered round fires at a distance of not more than a quarter of a mile on either hand, but, as the column passed between them, there was no sign of any stir. In a short time, the order was passed for the troops to form from column into line, and the cavalry officer who brought it said that there was a Russian battery erected right across the road, a little more than a quarter of a mile ahead. "Things look better, Captain Carstairs," the lieutenant said, as the company, which happened to be leading, fell into line. "Yes, I have no doubt we shall take their battery, coming down, as we do, upon its rear. The question is, are there any intrenchments ahead? Major Sion told us, when we halted, that the peasant assured him that there were no works beyond it, and that it was the weakest point of the line; but it is three days since he came out from Notteburg, and, working hard as the Russians evidently do, they may have pushed on their intrenchments far in advance of the battery by this time." The force halted for a moment. The guns were unlimbered, turned round, and loaded. Then the line of cavalry opened right and left, the four pieces poured a discharge of grape into the Russians, clustered thickly in the battery four hundred yards away, and then, with a shout, the Swedish cavalry charged, the infantry coming on at a run behind them. The surprise was complete. With cries of terror, the Russians for the most part leapt from the battery and fled, and the few who attempted to defend their guns were sabred by the cavalry. "There are other works ahead!" Major Sion exclaimed, as, sitting on his horse, he looked over the parapet, "and bodies of troops scattered all about. Push forward, men, at a double, and do you, Captain Sherlbach, cut a way for us with your cavalry." The sun had set a few minutes before the guns were fired, and Charlie, as he led his men over the earthwork, and saw the Russian lines in front, congratulated himself upon the fact that, in another half hour, it would be quite dark. As they approached the next line of works, a scattering fire of musketry opened upon them, but the aim was wide, and without loss they reached the work. The Russians, though inferior in numbers, defended themselves obstinately, and continually received reinforcements of bodies of men, running up from all sides. In five minutes the Swedes cleared the works of them, but, as they prepared to advance again, they saw a large body of horse riding down to bar their advance, while numbers of footmen were running to occupy some intrenchments ahead of them. Trumpets were sounding to the right, left, and rear. "We cannot force our way farther," the major said to Charlie. "We knew nothing of these works, and they are fatal to our enterprise. We must retreat while we can. Do you not think so?" "Yes, sir, I think the enterprise is quite hopeless." The order was given. The troops faced about, formed into closer order, and at the double retraced their steps, the spearmen of each company forming its front line, and the musketeers the second. Already it was growing dusk. The cavalry, riding ahead, scattered the small bodies of men who threw themselves in their way, and the battery they had first taken was entered without loss. There was a momentary halt here, for the men to recover their wind. Then the musketeers poured a volley into a dark line advancing upon them, the horsemen charged in among them, the long pikes of the front line cleared the way, and, with a shout, the Swedes passed through their foes and pressed forward. But more troops were gathering to bar their way, and the major changed the line of march sharply to the right, sweeping along by the side of the force through which they had just cut their way, the musketeers on the flank firing into them as they passed. The movement was an adroit one, for in the gathering darkness the enemy in front would not be able to distinguish friends from foes, or to perceive the nature of the movement. For a few minutes they were unmolested, then the course was again changed, and Charlie was beginning to think that, in the darkness, they would yet make their escape, when a dull heavy sound was heard in their rear. "That's the Russian cavalry, Bowyer. Take the musketeers on with you, and keep close to the company ahead. I will break them up with the pikemen. If they do come up to you, give them a volley and then continue your retreat with the rest." While the captains of the other two companies had placed their pikemen in the front line, Charlie had placed his in the rear, in order to repel any attack of cavalry from that direction. He now formed them in a close clump, taking his place among them. The Russian squadrons came along with a deep roll like that of thunder. They were but thirty yards away when they perceived the little cluster of men with levelled lances. A few, unable to check their horses, rushed upon the points, but most of them reined in their little steeds in time. In a moment, the Swedes were surrounded by a wall of yelling horsemen, some of whom tried to break through the hedge of spears, while others discharged their pistols. Charlie listened anxiously for the roll of a volley of musketry, but no sound came, and he felt sure that the whole body of cavalry had halted round him, and that his movement had saved the rest, who would now, if fortunate, be able to make their way off in the darkness. But the men were falling now from the pistol fire of the Cossacks, and, feeling that the work had been done, he determined to make one effort to save the men with him. "Level your spears, and charge through them shoulder to shoulder," he said. "It is your only chance. Once through, throw away your spears, and break up in the darkness. Most of you may escape. "Now!" With a shout, the Swedes rushed forward in a body. Horses and riders went down before them. There was a rush from behind. Charlie shouted to the rear rank, to face about, but in the confusion and din his words were unheard. There was a brief struggle in the darkness. Charlie emptied his pistols, and cut down more than one of his opponents, then a sword fell on his shoulder, while at the same moment he was ridden over by a Cossack, and was stunned by the force of his fall. When he recovered consciousness, several men with torches were moving about him, and, at the orders of an officer, were examining the bodies of the fallen. He saw them pass their swords through the bodies of three of his own men, who were lying near him, and as they came up to him he closed his eyes, expecting a similar fate. "This is an officer, captain," one of the torch bearers said in Russian. "Very well. Carry him to the camp, then. If he is alive, the general may want to question him." Seeing that he breathed, four of the Russian soldiers took him upon their shoulders, and carried him away. The pain of his wound, caused by the movement, was acute, but he retained consciousness until, after what seemed to him a journey of immense length, he was again laid down on the ground, close to a large fire. Several officers stood round him, and he asked, first in Polish and then in Swedish, for water, and at the orders of one who seemed of superior rank to the others, some was at once brought to him. "Your king treats his prisoners well," the officer said. "We will do everything we can for you." Half an hour later, a doctor came to his side, and cutting open his coat, applied a bandage to his shoulder. "Is it a serious wound?" Charlie asked in Swedish. "It might be worse, but it will be a troublesome one; it is a sabre cut, and has cleft right through your shoulder bone. Are you hurt anywhere else?" "No, I do not think so. I was knocked down in the dark, and I believe stunned, though I have a sort of recollection of being trampled on, and I feel sore all over." The surgeon felt his ribs and limbs, repeatedly asking him if it hurt him. When he finished the examination, he said: "You are doubtless badly bruised, but I don't think anything is broken. Our Cossack horses are little more than ponies. Had they been heavy horse, they would have trod your life out." A few moments later there was a sound of trampling horses. They halted close by. The officers drew back, and a moment later Marshal Scheremetof, the commander of the Russian army, came up to Charlie's side. "Which of you speaks Swedish?" he asked the officers, and one of them stepped forward. "Ask him what force was this that attacked us, and with what object." As Charlie saw no reason for concealment, he replied that it was a body of four hundred Swedish infantry, and a troop of horse, with four guns, and that their object was to enter the town. "They must have been mad to attempt to cut their way through our whole army," the general said, when the answer was translated to him; "but, by Saint Paul, they nearly succeeded. The Swedes are mad, but this was too much even for madmen. Ask him whence the force came. It may be that a large reinforcement has reached Vyburg, without our knowing it." "We arrived two days since," Charlie replied, when the question was put to him. "We came in a ship together from Revel." "Did others come with you?" was next asked, at the general's dictation. "No other ship but ours has arrived." "But others are coming?" As Charlie had no doubt that great efforts would be made to send further reinforcements, he replied: "Many more troops are coming, but I cannot say when they will arrive." "Will it be soon?" "That I cannot say, but I don't think they will come from Revel. There was a talk of large reinforcements, but whether from Sweden or from the king's army, I cannot say." "Are you a Swede?" the general asked. "I am an Englishman in the Swedish service, general." "We have many of your countrymen with us," the general said. "It would have been better for you, had you come to the czar. "See that he is well treated," he said to the officers, and then mounted and rode away. Chapter 15: An Old Acquaintance. The next morning Charlie was placed in a tent, in which lay several officers who had been wounded, either the night before or by shots from the town. He learned with great pleasure, upon questioning the doctor, that the Swedes had got off safely in the darkness. Some eight or ten men only had straggled and been made prisoners, and not more than twenty had been left dead on the field. He had the satisfaction, therefore, of knowing that the defence made by his own pikemen had been the means of saving the whole force. In other respects he had nothing to complain of, for he was well attended to, and received the same treatment as the Russians. For another ten days the roar of the cannon continued, some seventy guns keeping up an incessant fire on the town. At the end of that time the governor capitulated, and was allowed to march out with the honours of war. Only forty out of the brave garrison remained unwounded at the end of the siege. They, as well as such of their comrades as were strong enough to travel, passed through the lines of the Russians, and marched to Vyburg. Three weeks after being made a prisoner, Charlie's wound was so far healed that the surgeon pronounced him able to sit a horse, and, under the escort of an officer and four Cossacks, he was taken by easy stages to Bercov, a prison fortress a short distance from Moscow. He had inquired from the surgeon who attended him for Doctor Kelly. The doctor knew him, but said that he was not with the army, but was, he believed, away visiting some towns on the Volga, where a serious pestilence was raging. Charlie remained but a short time at Bercov. His wound was healing rapidly, and the surgeon who attended him assured him that there was every prospect of his making a complete cure, if he would but keep his arm, for some weeks, in a sling. He had nothing to complain of, either as to his comfort or food. The governor, who spoke a little Polish, visited him every day, and asked many questions as to his native country. On one of these visits he said to him: "You asked me yesterday if I knew Doctor Kelly, one of the chief surgeons of the army, who, as you had heard, was at present on the Volga. You mentioned that he was a friend of yours, and that you had made his acquaintance, when you were unlucky enough before to be a prisoner in our hands. I am sorry to say that I have today seen an official report, in which his name appears among the list of those who have fallen victims to the pestilence." "I am sorry to hear that," Charlie exclaimed; "both because he was very kind to me, and I liked him much, and because, in the second place, I was sure that he would have used his influence, with the czar, to obtain my exchange as soon as possible." "It is very unfortunate," the governor said, "especially as these exchanges are of rare occurrence. A few officers may be taken prisoners on each side in the skirmishes, but the numbers are too small to make the loss of any importance, either to Russia or Sweden, and it is months since either have taken any steps to bring about exchanges. I myself have no influence. My appointment here is a sort of punishment, for having offended the czar by not having brought up my regiment in time to take part in the fight, when you attacked us at Narva. I saved the regiment, but that was not regarded as any excuse for having been three days longer on the march than the czar expected; so I was sent here, as a sort of dismissal from active service. "You know no one else who could move in your matter?" "No one. The governor of the castle at Plescow was a surly fellow, and was reprimanded by the czar, at least so I heard, for not having treated me sufficiently well. I was only three or four days there, and the only officer I saw besides Doctor Kelly was a friend of his, another doctor. He was at the table when I dined with Kelly. He seemed to me to be a fine fellow, and, by the by, he did say jokingly that, if I was ever made prisoner again, I was to ask for him, and that he would do anything he could for me." "What was his name?" the governor asked. "Peter Michaeloff. "Do you know him?" he added, as he saw a look of surprise in the governor's face. "I know one of that name," the governor said doubtfully, "I don't know that he is a doctor; though he may be, for he knows something of many things." "Oh, he was a doctor," Charlie said confidently. "I know Kelly said he could take off a limb as well as he could do it, himself." "What sort of man was he?" "He was a tall, strong man, with black hair and gray eyes. He has rather a positive way of talking, and seemed to have very strong opinions about things. He looked good tempered, but I should say that he could be passionate enough, if he were put out." "That might be the Peter Michaeloff I know," the governor said. "You are sure he said that you were to ask for him, if you were a second time taken prisoner?" "I am quite certain he said so, though I don't know whether the promise meant much. But he certainly spoke as if he thought he might be able to help me, and, though it did not seem likely that I could have such bad luck twice, I think he meant at the time what he said, and I should think he was the sort of man who would keep his word." "I will make some inquiries," the governor said, "and find out, if I can, where he is at present. Yes, I should think that he would be able to assist you, if he chose to interest himself in the matter." Ten days later, the governor came into Charlie's room. "An officer has arrived, with an order for your removal," he said. "You are to be taken up again to Notteburg." "I am very sorry," Charlie said. "I have been very comfortable here. You have been very kind to me, and I feel sure the change will not be for the better. Besides, we are nearly into September now, and in that marshy country round the lake and river, the winter will be even more severe than it is here. The only thing I can think of is that the Swedes at Vyburg may have taken a Russian captain prisoner, and that they are going to exchange us." The governor shook his head. "There are no longer any Swedes at Vyburg. All Ingria is in our hands and the Swedes have retired into Finland. It may be that it is the work of your friend. I sent a message to Peter Michaeloff, should he be found in that neighbourhood, by an officer who was going there, telling him that you were here, and that, having met him when a prisoner at Plescow, you relied on his good offices. Should the officer have found him there, and have given him my message, he may probably have begged the field marshal to order you to be taken to the prison there, where he could be near you, and visit you sometimes." "Your doctors must have a good deal more influence in your army than they have among the Swedes," Charlie remarked, "if that is how it has come about." "It would be a matter of favour," the governor said. "If Michaeloff is acquainted with the field marshal, or had attended him when unwell, he could ask a little favour of that sort. If the field marshal sent you here, he could send for you again without more trouble than signing his name to the order." "Well, if it is Michaeloff who has done this," Charlie grumbled; "no doubt he meant it kindly, but I would much rather that he left me here. A ride of two hundred and fifty miles, in August, is not pleasant to begin with, and the thought of winter in those swamps is enough to make one shiver." "With a comfortable room and a warm stove, you will not find much to complain of, Captain Carstairs," the governor said with a smile; "and, no doubt, Michaeloff may be enabled to obtain leave for you to go out with him on parole. I was about myself to ask you, now that you are strong and well again, whether you would like to give your parole, and offer you the use of my horse for a ride, when inclined for it." "Thank you, governor. If Michaeloff can do that, it will certainly be a boon, but I am not disposed to agree that the change can be his work. In the first place, we don't know that he is there. In the second, I can hardly think that he could have managed it; and, most of all, I do not see he could possibly have had a hand in the matter, for, even supposing the officer had found him directly he arrived, and then given him the message, and he had acted upon it at once, there would have been no time for the order to get here. It would have needed a messenger riding night and day, with frequent relays of horses, to have got to Notteburg and back since the day I spoke to you about the matter. "When am I to start?" "As soon as you have eaten your breakfast. The order says 'send at once,' and field marshals expect their orders to be attended to promptly." On descending to the courtyard after breakfast, Charlie was surprised to see that, instead of a horse as he had expected, a well-appointed carriage, with an ample supply of rugs, was standing there. The governor was there to see him off. "Well, sir," Charlie said. "If this is the way in which you convey prisoners from one place to another in Russia, I shall certainly be able, when I meet King Charles, to report to him most favourably as to the treatment of his officers who have fallen into the czar's hands. This will make the journey a very much more pleasant one than I had expected." "I am glad you are pleased," the governor said, "and that you have no unpleasant recollection of your stay here." A minute later, the carriage dashed out through the gate of the prison. An officer was seated by Charlie's side, two Cossacks galloping in front, while two others rode behind. "It was worth making the change, if only for this drive," Charlie thought cheerfully, as the dust flew up in a cloud before the horses' hoofs, and he felt a sense of exhilaration from the keen air that blew in his face. The journey was performed with great rapidity. One of the Cossacks galloped ahead, as soon as they arrived at the station where they changed horses, and had fresh ones in readiness at the next post house. The Cossacks themselves were changed at every other station, fresh relays from the men stationed there taking their place. Excellent meals were served three times a day, and each night a comfortable bed was provided, at the last post house where they stopped. The officer was a pleasant fellow, but he spoke nothing except Russian, and, although Charlie fancied he understood him to some extent when he spoke to him in Polish, he shook his head and gave no answers in that language. Late in the evening of the third day, they arrived at Notteburg. The building at which the carriage stopped was of considerable size. It stood in the heart of the town, and had no outward appearance of a prison. It was apparently at a side entrance at which they stopped. On the officer knocking at the door, it was opened by two Cossacks, who, after exchanging a few words in Russian with the officer, led Charlie along a passage and up a narrow staircase, which led into a somewhat spacious corridor. They opened a door, and he found himself in a comfortable room. A table laid for dinner with handsome silver and appointments stood in the middle of the room, which was carpeted with tartar rugs. One of the Cossacks opened an inner door, which led into a bedroom, snugly furnished. "It must be the doctor, after all," Charlie murmured to himself, in great surprise. "I see now that there was plenty of time for a letter to come up here and have gone back again, and I suppose the good fellow has got leave for me to stay for a night in his quarters, before I am handed over to the prison. Well, for the last three days I have travelled like a prince, and this is the closing act of it." He enjoyed a good wash, then returned to the other room, and sat down in a comfortable chair to wait for his host. He was on the point of dozing off, when the door opened, and Peter Michaeloff entered. Charlie sprang to his feet. "Well, Captain Carstairs," the Russian said, holding out his hand, "so it seems you had bad luck again. You must have quite an affection for our prisons." "I shall have, at least, a pleasant remembrance of the kindness shown to me as a prisoner," Charlie said; "and I am sure it is you that I have to thank for my transfer here, and for the pleasant journey I have had. I could not have travelled more comfortably, if I had been a Russian grandee." "Well, I am glad to meet you again," the doctor said heartily. "Let me see, it is some twenty months since we supped together last at Kelly's quarters. Poor fellow! I shall miss him greatly. You have heard of his death?" "The governor of Bercov told me of it, a fortnight ago. I was indeed sorry to hear it. I shall never forget his kindness to me." "Yes, he was a good man, skilful in his profession, and full of zeal and energy. The blood runs faster somehow, in the veins of you islanders, than of us sluggish Muscovites. If we could but at one sweep banish every Russian official, from the highest to the lowest, and fill their places with men from your islands, what progress we should make, what work could we get done, what reforms could be carried out! "However, at present," he went on, changing the subject abruptly, "the point is supper. I am as hungry as a bear, for I have been at work since daylight, and have eaten nothing since I broke my fast." He rang a handbell placed on the table. Two Cossacks entered bearing dishes, and the doctor and his guest at once fell to on the supper, which was excellent. "Hard work deserves good food," the Russian said, in reply to a remark of Charlie's as to the excellence both of the food and wine. "Your Charles does not think so, I hear, and lives on the roughest of food. What will be the consequence? He will wear himself out. His restless activity will exhaust his powers, and weaken his judgment. I can eat rough food if I can get no better, but I take the best, when opportunity offers. "What have you been doing ever since you left Plescow? I inquired after you the other day, when our troops broke up Schlippenbach's force on the Embach. I found you were not among the prisoners, and I wondered if you were among the killed." "I was not in Livonia at the time. I was with the king's army at Warsaw. Three regiments were sent off, the day after the battle of Clissow, by boats down the Vistula, and then by ship to Revel. Mine was one of them, but we arrived a fortnight too late." "Then you were present at Charles' third victory? How that young fellow handles his troops, and what wonderful troops they are! Now we will get into our easy chairs again, and you shall tell me something about what you have been doing, since we last met." Charlie gave a sketch of his adventures. "So you fought at the Dwina, too? You have had luck in going through three battles without a wound." When Charlie stated that he had gone to Warsaw on a private mission, whose nature was immaterial to the story, the doctor broke in: "You need not tell me what it was, it was of course something to do with Augustus. The way Charles is hunting down that unfortunate king is shocking, it is downright malignity. Why, he has wasted fifteen months over it already, and it has cost him Ingria. He could have made any terms with Poland he liked, after his victory on the Dwina, and would then have been free to use all his forces against us. As it is, he has wasted two summers, and is likely to waste another, and that not for any material advantage, but simply to gratify his hatred against Augustus; and he has left us to take Ingria almost without a blow, and to gain what Russia has wanted for the last hundred years, a foothold on the Baltic. He may be a great general, but he is no politician. No real statesman would throw away solid advantages in order to gratify personal pique." "He considers Augustus the author of this league against him," Charlie said. "He and the czar had no grounds at all of quarrel against him." "We talked over that, the last time we met," the doctor said with a laugh, "and I told you then that a foothold on the Baltic was so necessary to Russia, that she would have accepted the alliance of the Prince of Darkness himself to get it. As to Augustus, I don't defend him. He was ambitious, as I suppose most of us are. He thought he saw an opportunity of gaining territory. He has found that he has made a mistake, and will of course lose a province. But Charles' persecution of him goes beyond all bounds. Never before did a sovereign insist upon a nation consenting to dethrone its king at his dictation. "But go on with your story." He listened without remark, until Charlie concluded. "I wish you had been in our service," he said, "instead of that of Sweden. You would have mounted fast. You have all the requisites for success, above all, promptitude of decision and quickness of invention. You did well in getting away from that Jewish scoundrel in the hut, and in killing his master, but it was your adventure with the wolves that showed your quality. That idea of setting fire to the tree in which you were sitting, in order at once to warm yourself and to frighten away the wolves, would never have occurred to a Russian, and the quickness with which you formed, with three logs, a redoubt against the wolves, showed a quick military eye, and the ability to think and act in a moment of danger. "Now tell me how it was that you were the only officer captured the other day." Charlie briefly related how he, with the pikemen of his company, had stayed behind to check the pursuit of the Russian horse, and to gain time for the main body to lose themselves in the darkness. The Russian struck his fist on the arm of his chair. "It was well done," he said. "There is the difference. A Russian captain would have done it, if he had been ordered, and he and his men would, without a question, have sacrificed themselves to cover the retreat of the rest, but he would never have done it on his own initiative. The idea would never have struck him. He would have plodded along until the enemy's cavalry came up and annihilated them all. By the way, why did you not ask for me at once?" "I had asked for Doctor Kelly the day after I was taken prisoner, and was told that he had gone to the Volga. I thought that he would be back before long, and it was only when I heard of his death that it occurred to me to endeavour to find one who had kindly promised, after a few hours' acquaintance only, to befriend me should I ever find myself in a similar scrape." "It would have saved you the journey down to Moscow. I heard, of course, that a Swedish captain had been made prisoner that night, but I was myself at Moscow at the time, and did not happen to notice the name of the officer taken. Were you well treated at Bercov?" "The governor there was most kind, and all the arrangements of the prison seem excellent. I had no reason whatever to complain. The governor was good enough to come frequently himself to talk to me. He is a fine soldierly man, and though he did not say much, I think he is eating his heart out at being laid on the shelf there, instead of aiding to fight the battles of his country." The Russian took out a pocketbook and made a note, then he rose. "It is time for bed," he said. "I am up at daybreak." "I hope I shall see you often in the prison," Charlie said. "I suppose I shall go in there tomorrow morning. I am indebted to you, indeed, for the very great kindness you have shown me." "No, you will not go in early. I have got leave for you for another day, and I am going to take you for a drive in the morning. You will be called an hour before sunrise. Take your breakfast as soon as you are dressed. Do not wait for me. I have work to do before I start, and shall breakfast elsewhere." As soon as Charlie had breakfasted the next morning, a Cossack told him that the carriage was below, and he followed him to the door where he had entered on the previous evening. The carriage was a simple one, but the three horses harnessed abreast to it were magnificent animals. Charlie stood admiring them for some little time. "I should think," he said to himself, "the doctor must be a man of large property, and most likely of noble family, who has taken up his profession from pure love of it. He is evidently full of energy, and has an intense desire to see Russia greater and higher in the rank of nations. I suppose that, like Kelly, he is one of the principal medical officers in the army. Certainly he must be a man of considerable influence to obtain my transfer here so easily, and to see that I travelled so comfortably. I wonder where he is going to take me this morning." Four or five minutes later Charlie's friend appeared at the door. He was evidently out of temper. He sprung hastily into the vehicle, as if he had altogether forgotten that he had asked Charlie to accompany him. Then, as his eye fell on him, he nodded and said briefly, "Jump in." A little surprised at the unceremonious address, Charlie sprang into the seat beside him without hesitation, seeing that his companion was evidently so much out of temper that he was not thinking of what he was doing at the moment. The coachman cracked his whip, and the spirited horses went off, at a rate of speed that threatened danger to persons traversing the narrow streets of the town. The cracking of the coachman's whip, and an occasional loud shout and the jangling of the bells, gave, however, sufficient warning of their approach. Charlie smiled at the alacrity with which every one sprang out of the way, and either leapt into doorways or squeezed themselves against the wall. He was surprised, however, to see that not only did the townspeople show no resentment, at the reckless pace at which the carriage was driven, but that the soldiers, officers as well as men, cleared out as quickly, and without any expression of indignation or anger. Indeed, most of them, as soon as they gained a place of safety, saluted his companion. "These Russians have evidently a higher respect for their doctors than have the Swedes," he said to himself. "I am sure that not even the chief surgeon of the army would be treated with anything like the same respect, and, indeed, no one would recognize him at all, if he were not in uniform." The doctor seemed to pay no attention to what was passing round him, but was muttering angrily to himself. It was not until they dashed out into the open country that he seemed to remember Charlie's presence at his side. "These people are enough to vex one of the saints, by their stupidity," he said. "Unless they have some one standing behind them with a whip, they cannot be trusted to do what they are told. It is not that they are not willing, but that they are stupid. No one would believe that people could be so stupid. They drive me well nigh to madness sometimes, and it is the more irritating because, against stupidity, one is powerless. Beating a man or knocking him down may do him good if he is obstinate, or if he is careless, but when he is simply stupid it only makes him more stupid than before. You might as well batter a stone wall. "You slept well and breakfasted well, Captain Carstairs?" "Excellently well, thank you. What superb horses you have, doctor." "Yes. I like travelling fast. Life is too short to throw away time in travelling. A busy man should always keep good horses." "If he can afford to do so," Charlie said with a laugh. "I should say that every one, busy or not, would like to sit behind such horses as these, and, as you say, it would save a good deal of time to one who travelled much. But three such horses as these would only be in the reach of one with a very long purse." "They were bred here. Their sire was one of three given by the king of England to the czar. The dams were from the imperial stables at Vienna. So they ought to be good." Charlie guessed that the team must have been a present from the czar, and, remembering what Doctor Kelly had said of the czar's personal communications with him, he thought that the ruler of Russia must have a particular liking for doctors, and that the medical profession must be a more honoured and profitable one in Russia than elsewhere. After driving with great rapidity for upwards of an hour along the banks of the Neva, Charlie saw a great number of people at work on an island in the middle of the river, some distance ahead, and soon afterwards, to his surprise, observed a multitude on the flat, low ground ahead. "This is what I have brought you to see," his companion said. "Do you know what they are doing?" "It seems to me that they are building a fortress on that island." "You are right. We have got a footing on the sea, and we are going to keep it. While Charles of Sweden is fooling away his time in Poland, in order to gratify his spite against Augustus, we are strengthening ourselves here, and never again will Sweden wrest Ingria from our hands." "It is marvellous how much has been done already," Charlie said, as he looked at the crowd of workmen. "Everything was prepared," his companion said. "While the army was invading Livonia, and driving the remnant of the Swedes into Revel, thousands of carts laden with piles of wood, stone, and cement were moving towards Ingria. Tens of thousands of workmen and peasants were in motion from every part of Russia towards this point, and, the day after Notteburg surrendered, they began their work here. It was the opportunity in the lifetime of a nation, and we have seized it. The engineers who had, in disguise, examined it months ago, had reported that the island was covered at high tides, and was unfit to bear the foundations of even the slightest buildings. Piles are being driven in, as close as they will stand, over every foot of ground in it. Over this a coating of concrete many feet thick will be laid, and on this the fortress, which is to be the centre and heart of Russia, will rise. In the fort will stand a pile, which will be the tomb of the future czars of Russia, and there in front of us, where you see fifty thousand peasants at work, shall be the future capital of the empire." "But it is a swamp," Charlie said in astonishment, alike at the vastness of the scheme, and the energy with which it was being prosecuted. "Nature has made it a swamp," his companion said calmly, "but man is stronger than nature. The river will be embanked, the morass drained, and piles driven everywhere, as has been done in the island, and the capital will rise here. The fort has already been named the Fortress of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. The capital will be named alike after the patron saint and its founder--Petersburg." They had now reached the spot. The carriage stopped and they alighted. Charlie saw, with astonishment, that a wide deep cut had been driven, between the road and the river, in a straight line. Looking down into it, he saw that it was paved with the heads of piles, and that carts were already emptying loads of concrete down upon it. "Every bag of cement, every stone that you see, has been brought from a great distance," his companion said. "There is not a stone to be had within fifty miles of this spot. The work would seem well-nigh impossible, but it is the work of a nation. In another month, there will be a hundred and fifty thousand peasants at work here, and well nigh as many carts, bringing materials for the work and provisions for the workers." "It is stupendous! But it will take years to complete, and it will surely be terribly unhealthy here?" "I calculate the work will occupy ten years, and will cost a hundred thousand, maybe two hundred thousand lives," the other said calmly; "but what is that to the making of a nation? Before, Russia was stifled, she could not grow. Now we have a communication with the world. The island that lies at the mouth of the Neva will be fortified, and become a great naval arsenal and fort. Along the walls which will rise here will be unloaded the merchandise of Europe, and in exchange the ships will carry away our products. Some day we shall have another port on the south, but for the present this must suffice. You will say that this is dangerously near our frontier, but that will soon be remedied. As we have pushed the Swedes out of Ingria, so in time shall we drive them from Livonia on the west, and from Finland on the north. "But I must to work." And he motioned to a group of five or six officers, who had been standing a short distance away, to approach him. Charlie was struck with the air of humility with which they saluted his companion, who at once asked a number of questions as to the supplies that had arrived, the progress that had been made, at a point where they had met with a deep slough into which the piles had penetrated without meeting with any firm ground, the number of huts that had been erected during the past three days for the reception of labourers, the state of stocks of meat and flour, and other particulars. To each he gave short, sharp orders. When they had left, he turned to Charlie. "You guess who I am, I suppose?" "I guess now, your majesty," Charlie said respectfully, "but until now the idea that my kind friend was the czar himself never entered my mind. I understood, from Doctor Kelly, that you were a surgeon." "I don't think he said so," the czar replied. "He simply said that I could perform an amputation as well as he could, which was not quite true. But I studied surgery for a time in Holland, and performed several operations under the eyes of the surgeons there. "I saw that you did not recognize my name. It is known to every Russian, but doubtless you never heard of me save as Peter the Czar. Directly you mentioned it to the commandant at Bercov, and described my appearance, he knew who it was you were speaking of, and despatched a messenger at once to me. He will be here in the course of a week or so. Upon your report of the state of the prison, I at once despatched an order for him to hand over his command to the officer next in rank, and to proceed hither at once. He is evidently a good administrator, and heaven knows I have need of such men here. "I was pleased with you, when I saw you with my friend Doctor Kelly. It was pleasant not to be known, and hear a frank opinion such as you gave me, and as you know, I sent you back on the following morning. I certainly told Kelly, at the time, not to mention who I was, but I did not intend that he should keep you in ignorance of it after I had left, and it was not until I heard, from your jailer at Bercov, that you were ignorant that Peter Michaeloff was the czar, that I knew that he had kept you in ignorance of it until the end. "I should have liked to have kept you as my guest for a time, but winter comes on early and suddenly, and if you did not go now you might be detained here until the spring. I have therefore given orders that one of the Swedish vessels we captured on the lake should be got in readiness, and its crew placed on board again. You shall embark in an hour, and it shall carry you to any port in Sweden you may choose. The wind is from the east, and you have every chance of a quick run thither." Charlie expressed his warm thanks to the czar for his thoughtful kindness. "I have much to do now," the czar said, "and must hand you over to the care of one of my officers. He will accompany you, in my carriage, to the spot where the vessel is lying, near the mouth of the river, and will there see you on board. Should the fortune of war again throw you into our hands, do not lose an hour in sending a message to Peter Michaeloff." So saying, the czar shook hands with Charlie, beckoned an officer to him and gave him instructions, and then moved away among the workmen, while Charlie, with his conductor, took their places in the vehicle and drove rapidly off. An hour later, he was on board the Swedish vessel, whose master and crew were delighted at their sudden and unlooked for release. The former was overjoyed, for the vessel was his own property. "You will find your things in your cabin, sir," he said. "They were sent on board this morning, together with food and wine sufficient for a month's voyage, whereas, with this wind, we ought not to be more than four days. At which port will you land?" "I would rather go to Gottenburg, captain, though it is farther for you than Stockholm." "It shall be Gottenburg, sir. It is thanks to you that I have got my liberty and my ship, and a day or two can make no difference to me." Charlie, indeed, had thought the matter over as he drove along. He would not be able to rejoin the army until it had gone into winter quarters, and therefore decided that he would go to Gottenburg, apply for six months' leave, and spend the winter with his father. Somewhat puzzled at the mention of his things having gone on board, he went into the cabin, and found there a handsome pelisse trimmed with costly furs, two robes composed of valuable skins, and a change of clothes. The wind held fair, blowing strongly, and four days later he arrived at Gottenburg. Chapter 16: In England Again. Charlie was received with delight by his father, whom he had not seen since the spring of the previous year. "Then you got my letter, Charlie?" Sir Marmaduke asked, when the first greetings were over. "And yet, I do not see how you could have done so. It is little over a fortnight since I wrote, and I had not looked for you for another month yet." "I have certainly received no letter, father. A fortnight ago I was in a Russian prison, and my arrival here, in so short a time, seems to me almost miraculous;" and he then briefly related his singular experiences. "Now about the letter, father," he said, as he concluded. "I suppose you must have written to ask me to get leave for a time, as it seems that you were expecting me shortly. I suppose you felt that you would like me with you, for a time." "So I should, lad, of that you may be sure, but I should not have called you away for that. No, I had this letter the other day from old Banks. You know he writes to me once a year. His letters have been only gossip so far, for you know my precious cousin kicked him out of the house, as soon as he took possession; but this is a different matter. Read it for yourself." Charlie took the letter, and with some trouble spelt through the crabbed handwriting. It began: "Honoured sir and master, I hope that this finds you and Captain Charles both well in health. I have been laid up with rhematis in the bones, having less comfort in my lodgings than I used to have at Lynnwood. Your honour will have heard that King William has fallen from his horse, and broken his collarbone, and died. May the Lord forgive him for taking the place of better men. Anne has come to the throne, and there were some hopes that she would, of herself, step aside and let him to whom the throne rightly belongs come to it. Such, however, has not been the case, and those who know best think that things are no forwarder for William's death, rather indeed the reverse, since the Princess Anne is better liked by the people than was her sister's husband. "There is no sure news from Lynnwood. None of the old servants are there; and I have no one from whom I can learn anything for certain. Things however are, I hear, much worse since young Mr. Dormay was killed in the duel in London, of which I told you in my last letter. "Dame Celia and Mistress Ciceley go but seldom abroad, and when seen they smile but little, but seem sad and downcast. The usurper has but small dealing with any of the gentry. There are always men staying there, fellows of a kind with whom no gentleman would consort, and they say there is much drinking and wild going on. As Captain Charles specially bade me, I have done all that I could to gather news of Nicholson. Till of late I have heard nothing of him. He disappeared altogether from these parts, just after your honour went away. News once came here from one who knew him, and who had gone up to London on a visit to a kinsman, that he had met him there, dressed up in a garb in no way according with his former position, but ruffling it at a tavern frequented by loose blades, spending his money freely, and drinking and dicing with the best of them. "A week since he was seen down here, in a very sorry state, looking as if luck had gone altogether against him. Benjamin Haddock, who lives, as you know, close to the gate of Lynnwood, told me that he saw one pass along the road, just as it was dusk, whom he could swear was that varlet Nicholson. He went to the door and looked after him to make sure, and saw him enter the gate. Next day Nicholson was in Lancaster. He was spending money freely there, and rode off on a good horse, which looked ill assorted with his garments, though he purchased some of better fashion in the town. It seemed to me likely that he must have got money from the usurper. I do not know whether your honour will deem this news of importance, but I thought it well to write to you at once. Any further news I may gather, I will send without fail. "Your humble servant, "John Banks." "There is no doubt that this is of importance," Charlie said, when he had read the letter through. "It is only by getting hold of this villain that there is any chance of our obtaining proof of the foul treachery of which you were the victim. Hitherto, we have had no clue whatever as to where he was to be looked for. Now, there can be little doubt that he has returned to his haunts in London. I understand now, father, why you wanted me to get leave. You mean that I shall undertake this business." "That was my thought, Charlie. You are now well-nigh twenty, and would scarce be recognized as the boy who left four years ago. The fellow would know me at once, and I might be laid by the heels again under the old warrant; besides being charged with breaking away from the custody of the soldiers. Besides, in this business youth and strength and vigour are requisite. I would gladly take the matter in my own hands, but methinks you would have a better chance of bringing it to a favourable issue. Now that Anne is on the throne, she and her advisers will look leniently upon the men whose only fault was devotion to her father; and if we can once get this foul charge of assassination lifted from our shoulders, I and Jervoise and the others who had to fly at the same time, may all be permitted to return, and obtain a reversal of the decree of the Act of Confiscation of our estates. "I have no friends at court, but I know that Jervoise was a close acquaintance, years ago, of John Churchill, who is now Duke of Marlborough, and they say high in favour with Anne. I did not think of it when I wrote to you, but a week later it came to my mind that his intervention might be very useful, and I took advantage of an officer, leaving here for the army, to send by him a letter to Jervoise, telling him that there was now some hope of getting at the traitor who served as John Dormay's instrument in his plot against us. I said that I had sent for you, and thought it probable you would take the matter in hand; and I prayed him to send me a letter of introduction for you to the duke, so that, if you could by any means obtain the proof of our innocence of this pretended plot, he might help you to obtain a reversal of the Act of Confiscation against us all. I have asked him to write at once, and I will send the letter after you, as soon as I get it. "I know nothing of London, but I have heard of the Bull's Head, in Fenchurch Street, as being one frequented by travellers from the country. You had best put up there, and thither I will forward the note from Jervoise." "The letter will be a useful one, indeed, father, when I have once wrung the truth from that villain Nicholson. It will be an expedition after my own heart. There is first the chance of punishing the villain, and then the hope of restoring you to your place at dear old Lynnwood." "You must be careful, Charlie. Remember it would never do to kill the rascal. That would be the greatest of misfortunes; for, with his death, any chance of unmasking the greater villain would disappear." "I will be careful, father. I cannot say how I shall set about the matter, yet. That must depend upon circumstances; but, as you say, above all things I must be careful of the fellow's life. When is there a ship sailing, father?" "The day after tomorrow, Charlie. You will want that time for getting clothes, suitable to a young gentleman of moderate condition, up from the country on a visit to London. You must make up your mind that it will be a long search before you light on the fellow, for we have no clue as to the tavern he frequents. As a roistering young squire, wanting to see London life, you could go into taverns frequented by doubtful characters, for it is probably in such a place that you will find him. "However, all this I must leave to you. You showed yourself, in that Polish business, well able to help yourself out of a scrape, and if you could do that among people of whose tongues you were ignorant, you ought to be able to manage on English soil." "At any rate, I will do my best, father, of that you may be sure. I have the advantage of knowing the fellow, and am pretty certain that he will not know me." "Not he, Charlie," his father said confidently. "Even in the last two years, since you were here with Jervoise and the others, you have changed so much that I, myself, might have passed you in the street without knowing you. "Now, you had better go off and see about your things. There is no time to be lost. I have drawn out a hundred guineas of my money, which will, I should say, serve you while you are away; but don't stint it, lad. Let me know if it runs short, and I will send you more." "I have money, too, father. I have four months' pay due, besides money I have in hand, for there was but little need for us to put our hands in our pockets." Ten days later, Charlie arrived in the Port of London, and took up his abode at the Bull's Head, where he found the quarters comfortable, indeed, after the rough work of campaigning. The next morning he took a waiter into his confidence. "I have come to London to see a little life," he said, "and I want to be put into the way of doing it. I don't want to go to places where young gallants assemble. My purse is not deep enough to stand such society. I should like to go to places where I shall meet hearty young fellows, and could have a throw of the dice, or see a main fought by good cocks, or even sally out and have a little fun with the watch. My purse is fairly lined, and I want some amusement--something to look back upon when I go home again. What is the best way to set about it?" "Well, sir, if that is your humour, I have a brother who is one of the mayor's tipstaffs. He knows the city well, ay, and Westminster, too, and the purlieus of Saint James's, and whether you want to meet young gallants or roistering blades, or to have a look in at places where you can hire a man to cut another's throat for a few crowns, he can show you them. He will be on duty now, but I will send him a message to come round this evening, and I warrant me he will be here. He has showed young squires from the country over the town before this, and will guess what is on hand when he gets my message." Having nothing to do, Charlie sauntered about the town during the day, looking into the shops, and keeping a keen eye on passers by, with the vague hope that he might be lucky enough to come across his man. After he had finished his supper, the waiter came up and told him that his brother was outside. "I have spoken to him, sir, and he warrants that he can take you into the sort of society you want to meet, whatever it may be." Charlie followed him out. A man was standing under the lamp that swung before the door. "This is the gentleman I was speaking to you of, Tony." As the man took off his cap, Charlie had a good view of his face. It was shrewd and intelligent. "You understand what I want?" he asked, as the waiter ran into the house again, to attend to his duties. "Yes, sir. So far as I understood him, you wish to go to taverns of somewhat inferior reputations, and to see something of that side of London life. If you will pardon my boldness, it is somewhat of a dangerous venture. In such places brawls are frequent, and rapiers soon out. "You look to me like one who could hold his own in a fray," he added, as his eye ran over the athletic figure before him, "but it is not always fair fighting. These fellows hang together, and while engaged with one, half a dozen might fall upon you. As to your purse, sir, it is your own affair. You will assuredly lose your money, if you play or wager with them. But that is no concern of mine. Neither, you may say, is your life; but it seems to me that it is. One young gentleman from the country, who wanted, like you, to see life, was killed in a brawl, and I have never forgiven myself for having taken him to the tavern where he lost his life. Thus, I say that, though willing enough to earn a crown or two outside my own work, I must decline to take you to places where, as it seems to me, you are likely to get into trouble." "You are an honest fellow, and I like you all the more, for speaking out frankly to me," Charlie said, "and were I, as I told your brother, thinking of going to such places solely for amusement, what you say would have weight with me. But, as I see that you are to be trusted, I will tell you more. I want to find a man who did me and mine a grievous ill turn. I have no intention of killing him, or anything of that sort, but it is a matter of great importance to lay hand on him. All I know of him is that he is a frequenter of taverns here, and those not of the first character. Just at present he is, I have reason to believe, provided with funds, and may push himself into places where he would not show himself when he is out of luck. Still, it is more likely he is to be found in the lowest dens, among rascals of his own kidney. I may lose a little money, but I shall do so with my eyes open, and solely to obtain a footing at the places where I am most likely to meet him." "That alters the affair," the man said gravely. "It will add to your danger; for as you know him, I suppose he knows you, also." "No. It is four years since we met, and I have so greatly changed, in that time, that I have no fear he would recognize me. At any rate, not here in London, which is the last place he would suspect me of being in." "That is better. Well, sir, if that be your object, I will do my best to help you. What is the fellow's name and description?" "He called himself Nicholson, when we last met; but like enough that is not his real name, and if it is, he may be known by another here. He is a lanky knave, of middle height; but more than that, except that he has a shifty look about his eyes, I cannot tell you." "And his condition, you say, is changeable?" "Very much so, I should say. I should fancy that, when in funds, he would frequent places where he could prey on careless young fellows from the country, like myself. When his pockets are empty, I should say he would herd with the lowest rascals." "Well, sir, as you say he is in funds at present, we will this evening visit a tavern or two, frequented by young blades, some of whom have more money than wit; and by men who live by their wits and nothing else. But you must not be disappointed, if the search prove a long one before you run your hare down, for the indications you have given me are very doubtful. He may be living in Alsatia, hard by the Temple, which, though not so bad as it used to be, is still an abode of dangerous rogues. But more likely you may meet him at the taverns in Westminster, or near Whitehall; for, if he has means to dress himself bravely, it is there he will most readily pick up gulls. "I will, with your permission, take you to the better sort to begin with, and then, when you have got more accustomed to the ways of these places, you can go to those a step lower, where, I should think, he is more likely to be found; for such fellows spend their money freely, when they get it, and unless they manage to fleece some young lamb from the country, they soon find themselves unable to keep pace with the society of places where play runs high, and men call for their bottles freely. Besides, in such places, when they become unable to spend money freely, they soon get the cold shoulder from the host, who cares not to see the money that should be spent on feasting and wine diverted into the pockets of others. "I shall leave you at the door of these places. I am too well known to enter. I put my hand on the shoulder of too many men, during the year, for me to go into any society without the risk of someone knowing me again." They accordingly made their way down to Westminster, and Charlie visited several taverns. At each he called for wine, and was speedily accosted by one or more men, who perceived that he was a stranger, and scented booty. He stated freely that he had just come up to town, and intended to stay some short time there. He allowed himself to be persuaded to enter the room where play was going on, but declined to join, saying that, as yet, he was ignorant of the ways of town, and must see a little more of them before he ventured his money, but that, when he felt more at home, he should be ready enough to join in a game of dice or cards, being considered a good hand at both. After staying at each place about half an hour, he made his way out, getting rid of his would-be friends with some little difficulty, and with a promise that he would come again, ere long. For six days he continued his inquiries, going out every evening with his guide, and taking his meals, for the most part, at one or other of the taverns, in hopes that he might happen upon the man of whom he was in search. At the end of that time, he had a great surprise. As he entered the hotel to take supper, the waiter said to him: "There is a gentleman who has been asking for you, in the public room. He arrived an hour ago, and has hired a chamber." "Asking for me?" Charlie repeated in astonishment. "You must be mistaken." "Not at all, sir. He asked for Mr. Charles Conway, and that is the name you wrote down in the hotel book, when you came." "That must be me, sure enough, but who can be asking for me I cannot imagine. However, I shall soon know." And, in a state of utter bewilderment as to who could have learnt his name and address, he went into the coffee room. There happened, at the moment, to be but one person there, and as he rose and turned towards him, Charlie exclaimed in astonishment and delight: "Why, Harry, what on earth brings you here? I am glad to see you, indeed, but you are the last person in the world I should have thought of meeting here in London." "You thought I was in a hut, made as wind tight as possible, before the cold set in, in earnest. So I should have been, with six months of a dull life before me, if it had not been for Sir Marmaduke's letter. Directly my father read it through to me he said: "'Get your valises packed at once, Harry. I will go to the colonel and get your leave granted. Charlie may have to go into all sorts of dens, in search of this scoundrel, and it is better to have two swords than one in such places. Besides, as you know the fellow's face you can aid in the search, and are as likely to run against him as he is. His discovery is as important to us as it is to him, and it may be the duke will be more disposed to interest himself, when he sees the son of his old friend, than upon the strength of a letter only.' "You may imagine I did not lose much time. But I did not start, after all, until the next morning, for when the colonel talked it over with my father, he said: "'Let Harry wait till tomorrow. I shall be seeing the king this evening. He is always interested in adventure, and I will tell him the whole story, and ask him to write a few lines, saying that Harry and Carstairs are young officers who have borne themselves bravely, and to his satisfaction. It may help with the duke, and will show, at any rate, that you have both been out here, and not intriguing at Saint Germains.' "The colonel came in, late in the evening, with a paper, which the king had told Count Piper to write and sign, and had himself put his signature to it. I have got it sewn up in my doublet, with my father's letter to Marlborough. They are too precious to lose, but I can tell you what it is, word for word: "'By order of King Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. This is to testify, to all whom it may concern, that Captain Charles Carstairs, and Captain Harry Jervoise--'" "Oh, I am glad, Harry!" Charlie interrupted. "It was horrid that I should have been a captain, for the last year, and you a lieutenant. I am glad, indeed." "Yes, it is grand, isn't it, and very good of the king to do it like that. Now, I will go on-- "'Have both served me well and faithfully during the war, showing great valour, and proving themselves to be brave and honourable gentlemen, as may be seen, indeed, from the rank that they, though young in years, have both attained, and which is due solely to their deserts.' "What do you think of that?" "Nothing could be better, Harry. Did you see my father at Gottenburg?" "Yes. The ship I sailed by went to Stockholm, and I was lucky enough to find there another, starting for England in a few hours. She touched at Gottenburg to take in some cargo, and I had time to see Sir Marmaduke, who was good enough to express himself as greatly pleased that I was coming over to join you." "Well, Harry, I am glad, indeed. Before we talk, let us go in and have supper, that is, if you have not already had yours. If you have, I can wait a bit." "No; they told me you had ordered your supper at six, so I told them I would take mine at the same time; and, indeed, I can tell you that I am ready for it." After the meal, Charlie told his friend the steps he was taking to discover Nicholson. "Do you feel sure that you would know him again, Harry?" "Quite sure. Why, I saw him dozens of times at Lynnwood." "Then we shall now be able to hunt for him separately, Harry. Going to two or three places, of an evening, I always fear that he may come in after I have gone away. Now one of us can wait till the hour for closing, while the other goes elsewhere." For another fortnight, they frequented all the places where they thought Nicholson would be most likely to show himself; then, after a consultation with their guide, they agreed that they must look for him at lower places. "Like enough," the tipstaff said, "he may have run through his money the first night or two after coming up to town. That is the way with these fellows. As long as they have money they gamble. When they have none, they cheat or turn to other evil courses. Now that there are two of you together, there is less danger in going to such places; for, though these rascals may be ready to pick a quarrel with a single man, they know that it is a dangerous game to play with two, who look perfectly capable of defending themselves." For a month, they frequented low taverns. They dressed themselves plainly now, and assumed the character of young fellows who had come up to town, and had fallen into bad company, and lost what little money they had brought with them, and were now ready for any desperate enterprise. Still, no success attended their search. "I can do no more for you," their guide said. "I have taken you to every house that such a man would be likely to use. Of course, there are many houses near the river frequented by bad characters. But here you would chiefly meet men connected, in some way, with the sea, and you would be hardly likely to find your man there." "We shall keep on searching," Charlie said. "He may have gone out of town for some reason, and may return any day. We shall not give it up till spring." "Well, at any rate, sirs, I will take your money no longer. You know your way thoroughly about now, and, if at any time you should want me, you know where to find me. It might be worth your while to pay a visit to Islington, or even to go as far as Barnet. The fellow may have done something, and may think it safer to keep in hiding, and in that case Islington and Barnet are as likely to suit him as anywhere." The young men had, some time before, left the inn and taken a lodging. This they found much cheaper, and, as they were away from breakfast until midnight, it mattered little where they slept. They took the advice of their guide, stayed a couple of nights at Islington, and then went to Barnet. In these places there was no occasion to visit the taverns, as, being comparatively small, they would, either in the daytime or after dark, have an opportunity of meeting most of those living there. Finding the search ineffectual, Charlie proposed that they should go for a long walk along the north road. "I am tired of staring every man I meet in the face, Harry. And I should like, for once, to be able to throw it all off and take a good walk together, as we used to do in the old days. We will go eight or ten miles out, stop at some wayside inn for refreshments, and then come back here for the night, and start back again for town tomorrow." Harry at once agreed, and, taking their hats, they started. They did not hurry themselves, and, carefully avoiding all mention of the subject that had occupied their thoughts for weeks, they chatted over their last campaign, their friends in the Swedish camp, and the course that affairs were likely to take. After four hours' walking they came to a small wayside inn, standing back twenty or thirty yards from the road. "It is a quiet-looking little place," Charlie said, "and does but a small trade, I should say. However, no doubt they can give us some bread and cheese, and a mug of ale, which will last us well enough till we get back to Barnet." The landlord placed what they demanded before them, and then left the room again, replying by a short word or two to their remarks on the weather. "A surly ill-conditioned sort of fellow," Harry said. "It may be, Harry, that badness of trade has spoiled his temper. However, so long as his beer is good, it matters little about his mood." They had finished their bread and cheese, and were sitting idly, being in no hurry to start on their way back, when a man on horseback turned off from the road and came up the narrow lane in which the house stood. As Charlie, who was facing that way, looked at him he started, and grasped Harry's arm. "It is our man," he said. "It is Nicholson himself! To think of our searching all London, these weeks past, and stumbling upon him here." The man stopped at the door, which was at once opened by the landlord. "All right, I suppose, landlord?" the man said, as he swung himself from his horse. "There is no one here except two young fellows, who look to me as if they had spent their last penny in London, and were travelling down home again." He spoke in a lowered voice, but the words came plainly enough to the ears of the listeners within. Another word or two was spoken, and then the landlord took the horse and led it round to a stable behind, while its rider entered the room. He stopped for a moment at the open door of the taproom, and stared at the two young men, who had just put on their hats again. They looked up carelessly, and Harry said: "Fine weather for this time of year." The man replied by a grunt, and then passed on into the landlord's private room. "That is the fellow, sure enough, Charlie," Harry said, in a low tone. "I thought your eyes might have deceived you, but I remember his face well. Now what is to be done?" "We won't lose sight of him again," Charlie said. "Though, if we do, we shall know where to pick up his traces, for he evidently frequents this place. I should say he has taken to the road. There were a brace of pistols in the holsters. That is how it is that we have not found him before. Well, at any rate, there is no use trying to make his acquaintance here. The first question is, will he stay here for the night or not--and if he does not, which way will he go?" "He came from the north," Harry said. "So if he goes, it will be towards town." "That is so. Our best plan will be to pay our reckoning and start. We will go a hundred yards or so down the road, and then lie down behind a hedge, so as to see if he passes. If he does not leave before nightfall, we will come up to the house and reconnoitre. If he does not leave by ten, he is here for the night, and we must make ourselves as snug as we can under a stack. The nights are getting cold, but we have slept out in a deal colder weather than this. However, I fancy he will go on. It is early for a man to finish a journey. If he does, we must follow him, and keep him in sight, if possible." Two hours later they saw, from their hiding place, Nicholson ride out from the lane. He turned his horse's head in their direction. "That is good," Charlie said. "If he is bound for London, we shall be able to get into his company somehow; but if he had gone up to some quiet place north, we might have had a lot of difficulty in getting acquainted with him." As soon as the man had ridden past they leapt to their feet, and, at a run, kept along the hedge. He had started at a brisk trot, but when, a quarter of a mile on, they reached a gate, and looked up the road after him, they saw to their satisfaction that the horse had already fallen into a walk. "He does not mean to go far from Barnet," Charlie exclaimed. "If he had been bound farther, he would have kept on at a trot. We will keep on behind the hedges as long as we can. If he were to look back and see us always behind him, he might become suspicious." They had no difficulty in keeping up with the horseman. Sometimes, when they looked out, he was a considerable distance ahead, having quickened his pace; but he never kept that up long, and by brisk running, and dashing recklessly through the hedges running at right angles to that they were following, they soon came up to him again. Once, he had gone so far ahead that they took to the road, and followed it until he again slackened his speed. They thus kept him in sight till they neared Barnet. "We can take to the road now," Harry said. "Even if he should look round, he will think nothing of seeing two men behind him. We might have turned into it from some by-lane. At any rate, we must chance it. We must find where he puts up for the night." Chapter 17: The North Coach. Barnet was then, as now, a somewhat straggling place. Soon after entering it, the horseman turned off from the main road. His pursuers were but fifty yards behind him, and they kept him in sight until, after proceeding a quarter of a mile, he stopped at a small tavern, where he dismounted, and a boy took his horse and led it round by the side of the house. "Run to earth!" Harry said exultantly. "He is not likely to move from there tonight." "At any rate, he is safe for a couple of hours," Charlie said. "So we will go to our inn, and have a good meal. By that time it will be quite dark, and we will have a look at the place he has gone into; and if we can't learn anything, we must watch it by turns till midnight. We will arrange, at the inn, to hire a horse. One will be enough. He only caught a glimpse of us at that inn, and certainly would not recognize one of us, if he saw him alone. The other can walk." "But which way, Charlie? He may go back again." "It is hardly likely he came here merely for the pleasure of stopping the night at that little tavern. I have no doubt he is bound for London. You shall take the horse, Harry, and watch until he starts, and then follow him, just managing to come up close to him as he gets into town. I will start early, and wait at the beginning of the houses, and it is hard if one or other of us does not manage to find out where he hides." They had no difficulty in arranging with the landlord for a horse, which was to be left in a stable he named in town. They gave him a deposit, for which he handed them a note, by which the money was to be returned to them by the stable keeper, on their handing over the horse in good condition. After the meal they sallied out again, and walked to the tavern, which was a small place standing apart from other houses. There was a light in the taproom, but they guessed that here, as at the other stopping place, the man they wanted would be in a private apartment. Passing the house, they saw a light in a side window, and, noiselessly opening a little wicket gate, they stole into the garden. Going a short distance back from the window, so that the light should not show their faces, they looked in, and saw the man they sought sitting by the fire, with a table on which stood a bottle and two glasses beside him, and another man facing him. "Stay where you are, Harry. I will steal up to the window, and find out whether I can hear what they are saying." Stooping close under the window, he could hear the murmur of voices, but could distinguish no words. He rejoined his companion. "I am going to make a trial to overhear them, Harry, and it is better that only one of us should be here. You go back to the inn, and wait for me there." "What are you going to do, Charlie?" "I am going to throw a stone through the lower part of the window. Then I shall hide. They will rush out, and when they can find no one, they will conclude that the stone was thrown by some mischievous boy going along the road. When all is quiet again I will creep up to the window, and it will be hard if I don't manage to learn something of what they are saying." The plan was carried out, and Charlie, getting close up to the window, threw a stone through one of the lowest of the little diamond-shaped panes. He heard a loud exclamation of anger inside, and then sprang away and hid himself at the other end of the garden. A moment later he heard loud talking in the road, and a man with a lantern came round to the window; but in a few minutes all was quiet again, and Charlie cautiously made his way back to the window, and crouched beneath it. He could hear plainly enough, now, the talk going on within. "What was I saying when that confounded stone interrupted us?" "You were saying, captain, that you intended to have a week in London, and then to stop the North coach." "Yes, I have done well lately, and can afford a week's pleasure. Besides, Jerry Skinlow got a bullet in his shoulder, last week, in trying to stop a carriage on his own account, and Jack Mercer's mare is laid up lame, and it wants four to stop a coach neatly. Jack Ponsford is in town. I shall bring him out with me." "I heard that you were out of luck a short time ago." "Yes, everything seemed against me. My horse was shot, and, just at the time, I had been having a bad run at the tables and had lost my last stiver. I was in hiding for a fortnight at one of the cribs; for they had got a description of me from an old gentleman, who, with his wife and daughter, I had eased of their money and watches. It was a stupid business. I dropped a valuable diamond ring on the ground, and in groping about for it my mask came off, and, like a fool, I stood up in the full light of the carriage lamp. So I thought it better, for all reasons, to get away for a month or so, until things quieted down. I wanted to visit my banker, and it was a good many miles to tramp." "Oh, you have got a banker, captain?" "I have one who is just as good, though I cannot say he shells out his money willingly--in fact he was rude enough to say, when I called this time, that if I ever showed my face to him again he would shoot me, even if he were hung for it. Bad taste, wasn't it? At any rate, I mustn't call on him again too soon." "You haven't settled on the night yet, I suppose, captain?" "About the end of next week. Friday will be a full moon, I think, and I like a moon for the work. It gives light enough to see what you are doing, and not light enough for them to see much of you. So I suppose I may as well fix Friday. I will send up a message for Jack Mercer and Jerry Skinlow to be here on Thursday evening. I will be here that afternoon, and settle matters with them as to where they shall meet me, and what each man shall do. Then I will ride back to town, and come out again just as it gets dark, with Jack Ponsford." "I suppose you will do it north of here?" "No, I will do it a mile or two out of town. The road north of this is getting rather a bad reputation, and in going out of Barnet the guard now looks to his blunderbuss, and the passengers get their pistols ready. It isn't once in a hundred times they have pluck enough to use them, but they always think they will, until the time comes. Near town we shall take them by surprise, and stop them before they have time to think of getting out their arms. "Confound that window. Shove something into the hole, Johnson. I can feel the cold right down my back." A cloth was pushed into the broken pane, and Charlie could hear no more of what was said inside. He had heard, indeed, enough for his purpose, but he had hoped to gather the name of the place at which the man would put up in London. However, he was well satisfied with his success, and at once made his way back to the inn. "Well, Charlie, how have you succeeded?" Harry asked, as he sat down at the table. "Could not be better, Harry, though I did not find out where he puts up in London. However, that is of small consequence. In the first place, I found out that our suspicions were right, and that the fellow is a highwayman, and seems to be captain of a gang consisting anyhow of three, and perhaps of more, fellows like himself. In the second place, he intends, with his three comrades, to attack the coach on Friday week, two or three miles out of town. Nothing could better suit our purpose, even if we had planned the affair ourselves. Of course, we will be there. If we can capture him while engaged in that work, we can get anything out of him. He has either got to confess or be hanged." "That is a stroke of good luck, indeed," Harry exclaimed. "It will be rather difficult to manage, though. The fellows will be sure to be masked; and, if we were to shoot him instead of one of the others, it would be fatal." "Yes, that would be awkward. Besides," Charlie said, "even if we did recognize him and shot his horse, he might jump up behind one of the other men, or might make off across the country, and we might lose sight of him before we could get down from the top of the coach to pursue." "It might be better if we were mounted, instead of being on the coach." "Better in some ways, Harry; but if they heard two mounted men coming along beside the coach, they would probably take the alarm and not attack at all; while, if we were to keep a bit behind, and ride up as soon as we heard the firing--for they generally shoot one of the horses to bring the coach to a standstill--they might ride off as soon as they heard the sound of the horses on the road. Those fellows are splendidly mounted. Their lives depend upon it, and nothing we should be able to hire would be likely to have a chance with them." "Well, we shall have plenty of time to think this over, Charlie. I suppose we shall carry out our plan tomorrow, as we arranged." "Certainly. It is as important to find out where he lives in London as it was before, for if he gets away, we can then look him up there. We may as well go to bed at once, for I shall start at four, so as to get to town before him, however early he may be off. But as we know, now, he is going up on pleasure and not on business, I don't suppose he will be in any hurry in the morning." Charlie arrived in town about eight o'clock, and, having breakfasted at the first tavern he came to, walked along for some distance, to decide upon the spot where he should take up his position. As Nicholson was going up, as he said, to enjoy himself, it was not likely that he would put up at Islington, but would take up his quarters in the centre of the town. He therefore decided to walk on, until he came to some junction of important roads; and there wait, as the man might make either for the city or Westminster, though the latter appeared the more probable direction. Here he walked up and down for an hour, and then, entering a tavern, took his place at the window, where he could see up the street, called for a stoup of wine, and prepared for a long wait. It was not, indeed, until three o'clock that he saw Nicholson coming along. He was more gaily dressed than he had been on the previous day. He had on a green cloth coat with gold braid round the cuffs, an embroidered waistcoat, yellow breeches, top boots, and three-cornered hat. He was riding at foot pace. Charlie went to the door as soon as he passed, and saw that, as he expected, he took the road to Westminster. Looking round, he saw Harry riding about a hundred yards behind. Charlie had no difficulty in keeping up with Nicholson, and traced him to a house in a quiet street lying behind the Abbey. A boy came out and held the horse, while its rider dismounted, and then led it away to the stable of an inn a short distance away. Charlie turned at once, and joined Harry. "I need not have taken all the trouble I have, Harry, still there was no knowing. Evidently the fellow has no fear of being detected, and is going to pass, for a week, as a gentleman from the country. I suppose he is in the habit of stopping at that house whenever he comes up with his pockets lined, and is regarded there as a respectable gentleman by the landlord. Now you had better take your horse to the stable, where you agreed to hand it over, and we will meet at our lodgings and plan what to do next." The discussion did not lead to much. There did not seem, to them, anything to do until the day when the coach was to be attacked, but they agreed it would be well to take the advice of their friend the tipstaff. Hitherto, they had not told him more of their motive for desiring to find Nicholson, than Charlie had said at his first interview with him. They thought it would be better, now, to make him more fully acquainted with the facts, for they had found him shrewd, and eager to assist them to the best of his power. They therefore sent a boy with a note to him, at the court, and at seven o'clock he came to their lodgings. "We have found our man," Charlie said as he entered. "I am very glad to hear it, gentlemen. I had quite given up all hopes that you would be able to do so, and thought he must have left town altogether for a time." "Sit down and take a glass of wine. We want your advice in this matter, and unless you know how much there is at stake, you will not be able to enter fully into the affair. "Some four years ago, this fellow was concerned in a plot by which six gentlemen, among whom were our friends, were brought to ruin. They were in the habit of meeting together, being all of similar political opinions, and advantage was taken of this by a man, who hoped to profit largely by their ruin, especially by that of my father. In order to bring this about, he recommended this fellow we are in search of to my father, who happened, at the time, to be in want of a servant. "The fellow undoubtedly acted as a spy, for I once caught him at it. But spying alone would have been of no use, for there was nothing at any time said that would have brought harm upon them. They simply discussed what thousands of other people have discussed, the measures that should be taken on behalf of the Stuarts, if one of them came over from France supported by a French force. The fellow, however, swore that the object of these meetings was to arrange for an assassination of William. He gave full details of the supposed plot, and in order to give substance to his statements, he hid, in a cabinet of my father's, a number of compromising papers, professing to be letters from abroad. "These were found by the officers sent to arrest my father. He and his five friends managed to escape, but their estates were forfeited. Of course, what we want to prove is the connection between this spy and his employer, who, for his services in bringing this supposed plot to light, received as a reward my father's estates. There is no way of doing this, unless this man can be brought to confess his own villainy in the matter of the letters, and to denounce the scoundrel whose agent he was. Probably, by this time, he has got nearly all he can expect from his employer, and will at least feel no scruples in exposing him, if by so doing he can save his own neck. "Now, we have not only discovered the man, but have found out that he is a notorious highwayman, and the leader of a gang; but more, I have found out the day and hour on which he proposes to stop and rob the North coach." "Well, Mr. Carstairs, if you have done that," the man said, "you have done marvels. That you should find the man might be a piece of good luck, but that you should have learned all this about him seems to me wonderful." "It was a lucky accident, altogether. We saw him, watched him, and managed to overhear a conversation from which we gathered these facts. It was all simple enough. Of course, our idea is that we should, if possible, catch him in the act of robbing the coach, bind and take charge of him, saying that we should hand him over to justice, when the coachman and passengers would, of course, appear to testify against him. Instead of doing this, we should take him somewhere, and then give him the option of either making a clean breast of the whole story, and remaining in our custody until called upon to testify to his statement in a court of justice, whenever required; or of being handed over to the authorities, to be tried and hung as a highwayman. "One of our greatest difficulties is how to effect his capture. The attack will be made at night on the coach, and in the darkness we might shoot him, or he might get away. He is at present in London, at a lodging in a street behind the Abbey, where, doubtless, his real profession is altogether unsuspected by the people of the house. "Now you know the whole affair. Let us have your opinion as to the manner in which we had best set about the business." The man sat for some time, in silence. "I can think of no better plan than yours, sir, and yet it seems to me that there is scarcely any chance of your catching him at the coach. Of course, it would be easy enough if you did not care whether you killed or caught him. All you would have to do would be to get half a dozen stout fellows, armed with pistols, on the coach with you instead of passengers, and then you would be pretty certain to kill some of them, perhaps all; but, as you can't do that, and are afraid to shoot lest you should kill him, it seems to me that you have a very small chance of catching him that way." Charlie and his friend so thoroughly saw this, that they sat silent when he ceased speaking. "We could not arrest him now, I suppose?" Harry said at last. "Well, you see, you have got nothing against him. He may have been a Knight of the Road for the last five years, but you have no witnesses to prove it, and it is not much use to accuse him of intending to rob the North mail. You have no proofs, even of that. It is only your word against his. "There is no doubt that, after they have robbed the coach, they will separate. They may go away in twos, or singly. Now, you see, we know three of this fellow's hiding places. He would hardly choose the one at Barnet. It is too close. It is more likely he would choose the next place, the little inn in which you saw him first; but I think it more likely still that he and his mates will divide the plunder, half a mile or so from the place where they stopped the coach, and will then separate, and I am inclined to think his most likely course is to strike off from the main road, make a long round, and come down before morning to where he is now. He may take his horse into its stable, or, more likely, he may leave it at some place he may know of on the road leading out through Putney, and then arrive at his lodgings just about daybreak. He would explain he had been at a supper, and had kept it up all night, and no one would even have a suspicion he had been engaged in the affair with the coach. I am sure that is his most likely plan." "Then, what would you do?" Harry asked. "What I should do is this. I will get two sharp active boys. I know of two who would just do, they have done jobs for us before now. I will give them the exact description of those two taverns, and send them down the day before the coach is to be attacked, and tell them that, that night, they are each to keep watch over one of them, see who goes in, watch till they come out, and then follow them, for days if necessary, and track them down. Then they can send word up by the guard of the coach, each day; so that, if we find our man does not come back here by Saturday morning, we shall have news that will put us on his track again, before long. "However, I think he is sure to come back here. You had better point out to me, this evening, where he lodges, and I shall be able to find out, before long, whether they are respectable people, or whether they are likely to be pals of his. "If they are respectable, I will see them on Friday evening, show them my badge, and tell them that the man who has been lodging here is a notorious highwayman, and that I am going to arrest him. To prevent any chance of a mistake, I will put three or four of my mates round the house, to see that no one goes out to give him the alarm. I will come down and open the door for you, at two o'clock in the morning. You can then come up with me into his bedroom, and as he comes in, I will nab him. "If, on the other hand, I find the people of the house have a doubtful reputation in the neighbourhood, we must simply hide in doorways, make a rush upon him as he goes up to the house, and overpower him there. If one stands in his doorway, and leaps out on him as he comes up, he won't have much chance of using a pistol. I will have a cart ready, close by. We will truss him up tightly, gag him and put him into it, and I will have some place ready for us to drive him to, if you think that plan is as good as any other." "I think it is an excellent plan, and could not be better," Charlie exclaimed, and his friend heartily agreed with him. "I think you will be able to get anything out of him, when you get him there," said the tipstaff. "He is sure to have some of the swag about him, and, even if none of the passengers of the coach are able to swear to him, that and the talk you overheard would be sufficient to hang him." "Can those boys you speak of write?" "Not they, sir." "There might be a difficulty about a verbal message." "The guard will give it, all right, if he gets half a crown with it. You need not trouble about that, sir. I will have a man to meet each coach, as it comes in. "And now we have arranged matters, sir, I will go with you to see the house, and will send a sharp fellow down tomorrow, to make inquiries about the people of the place." When they returned, the friends sat for a long time, talking together. The suggested plan looked so hopeful that they felt confident of its success. "I think, Charlie," Harry said, "it would be a good thing for us to present ourselves to the Duke of Marlborough. Then we shall see if he is disposed to take an interest in us, and help us. If he is, he will tell us what had best be done towards getting Nicholson's statement made in the presence of some sort of official who will act on it. If he gives us the cold shoulder, we shall have to do as best we can in some other direction, and it will be well to have the matter settled, if possible, before we catch the fellow." "I think that will be a very good plan, Harry. I know where he lives. I inquired directly I came over. Tomorrow morning we can go there and inquire, at the door, at what hour he receives callers." The next day at eleven o'clock the young men, dressed in their best attire, called at the duke's. They were informed that the great man was at home, and would be as likely to see them then as at any other hour. Accordingly they entered, and were shown into an anteroom, and sent their names in by a footman. He returned with a request that they would follow him, and were shown into a library, where a singularly handsome man, in the prime of life, was sitting at a desk. He looked at them in some surprise. "Is there not some mistake, young gentlemen?" he asked. "My servant gave the names as Captain Jervoise, and Captain Carstairs. I do not recall the names as those of officers in her majesty's service." "No, my lord, we have the honour to be captains in the service of King Charles of Sweden, as this document, signed both by his minister, Count Piper, and by the king himself, will testify." The duke took the paper, and read it. "The king of Sweden speaks very highly of you both, gentlemen," he said cordially. "It is no mean credit to have gained such warm praise from the greatest general of his time. What can I do for you? Do you wish to be transferred from the service of Sweden to that of her majesty? We have need of good officers, and I can promise that you shall receive the same rank that you now hold, and it is likely that, before long, you will have an opportunity of seeing some service under your national flag." "I thank you warmly for your kindness, my lord, but it is not with that view that we have now come to you, though I am sure that we both should prefer to fight under our own flag, rather than under that of a foreign king, however kindly he may be disposed to us, personally. We have called upon a private matter, and I am the bearer of this letter from my father, who had once the honour of your lordship's friendship." "Jervoise," the duke repeated, as he took the letter. "Not Mat Jervoise, surely?" "That is my father's name, sir." "Do I remember him? Why, he was one of my closest friends when I was a lad, and I once stayed with him at his father's place, for a fortnight, on a journey I took to the north. But I will read his letter-- "What changes happen," he said, as he laid it down. "To think that Mat Jervoise should be an exile, his old home in the hands of strangers, and he a major in the Swedish service; and that I should never have heard a word about it! "Well, young sir," and he held out his hand to Harry, "I can promise you my aid and protection, to the utmost, in whatever matter you may be concerned. I seem to remember the name of your companion, too." "His father, Sir Marmaduke, was a neighbour of ours. There has always been great friendship between the two families." "Of course, I remember him now. He was some fifteen or twenty years older than your father. I remember that I went over with your father and grandfather, and dined at his place. He is still alive and well, I hope?" "He is both, sir," Charlie said; "but, like Major Jervoise, an exile." "You amaze me, but I will not ask you to tell me more, now. I have to be at Saint James's at twelve. "Let me see, this evening I shall be engaged. Come tomorrow morning, at half past eight, and I shall then be able to give you an hour, or maybe two, if necessary, and will then hear the whole story fully." The young men, on presenting themselves the next morning, at the hour named, were at once ushered in. "Now, let us lose no time," the duke said, after shaking hands heartily. "Which of you will tell the story?" "Carstairs will do so, my lord," Harry replied. "The mischief was hatched in his house, and my father, and six other gentlemen, were the victims of the treachery of a kinsman of his." Charlie told the story of the events that had brought about the ruin of his father and friends. "It is monstrous!" the duke exclaimed indignantly, when he had brought this part of his story to a conclusion. "That my old friend, Mat Jervoise, should be concerned in a plot for assassination, is, I would pledge my life, untrue; and Sir Marmaduke Carstairs was, I know, an honourable gentleman, who would be equally incapable of such an act. That they were both Jacobites, I can well believe, for the Jacobites are strong everywhere in the north, but, as half of us are or have been Jacobites, that can scarcely be counted as an offence. At any rate, a Stuart is upon the throne now, and, as long as she reigns, there is no fear that a civil war will be set up by another of the race. The story, as you have told it, sir, is, I doubt not for a moment, true, but at present it is unsupported; and though, on my assurance of their loyalty, I think I can promise that her majesty would extend a pardon to the gentlemen who have been so unjustly accused, I fear that she could not, by her own act, restore the estates that have been confiscated, unless you can bring some proof that this fellow you speak of was suborned to get up false evidence against them." "That, sir, is what I shall have the honour to inform you now." And Charlie then related the story of their quest for the man Nicholson, and its result. "Rarely devised and carried out," the duke said warmly. "Do you lay the knave by the heels, and frighten him into confessing the truth, and I will see to the rest of the matter. I do not know that I ought to let the North coach be robbed, after the information you have given me, but, as we will hunt down all the other fellows, and shall probably recover the booty they carry off, the passengers will have no reason to grumble. "Well, young sirs, the king of Sweden has given you a testimonial as to your bravery and conduct. If necessary, I will give you one for your ingenuity in planning and carrying out a difficult scheme. "So you have both been with the Swedes through their campaign against the Russians and Poles. I envy you. King Charles' service is a grand school for soldiers, and that victory of Narva is the most extraordinary one ever seen. Had you the honour of any personal intercourse with the king?" "Only during three days, when our company formed part of his escort at a hunting expedition," Harry, whom he addressed, replied. "But Carstairs spoke to him more frequently. He has been a captain nearly two years, while I only had my promotion two months ago. We were in the same regiment, and of the same rank, but Carstairs was promoted by the king, after the battle at the passage of the Dwina, as a reward for the suggestion he made in conversation with him, that the passage might be made under the screen of smoke caused by the lighting of the forage stacks." "I must have a long talk with you both. It is certain that, next spring, the campaign with France will re-open, and your experience in the field will be very useful to me. The Swedes are wonderful soldiers. The Muscovites, at present, are little better than barbarians carrying European arms, but the Saxons are good troops, and the Swedes have twice beaten them heavily, and they evidently retain the fighting qualities that, under Gustavus Adolphus, shook the imperial power to its centre. "The trouble is to find time. I am pestered with men desirous of employment in the army, with persons who want favours at court, with politicians of both parties, with people with schemes and intrigues of all kinds. I have to be in attendance at the palace, and to see into the whole details of the organization of the army. I have no doubt that, at present, my antechamber is crowded with people who want to see me." He looked at his tablets. "Next Wednesday evening I am free, except for a reception at Lord Godolphin's, but I can look in there late. I will not ask you here, because I want you to myself. I will have a private room at Parker's coffee house in Covent Garden. We will sup at seven. When you go there, ask for Mr. Church's room, and make yourself comfortable there until I come, for I can never answer for my own hours. In that way, we shall be free from all chance of interruption, and I can pick your brains undisturbed. You will remember the day and hour. Should there be any change in this private matter of yours, do not hesitate to come to me here." Tony Peters, their guide and adviser, reported favourably as to the people with whom the highwayman was lodging. "The house is kept by the widow of an usher at the palace. She entertains gentlemen from the country, who come up on business at the courts of justice, or with people of influence at court. I have ascertained that our man passes as a well-to-do trader of Salisbury, who comes up, two or three times a year, to transact business, and to enjoy for a short time the pleasures of town. He is liberal in his payments, and is held in high respect by the woman, whose only objection to him, as a lodger, is the late hours he keeps. He is a crafty fellow this, for by always going to the same house, and comporting himself with moderation, he secures a place of retirement, where, however close the quest after him, there will be no suspicion whatever, as to his profession, on the part of the people he is with. "My man found out all these matters from the servant wench. We shall have no difficulty in taking him quietly. The woman will be so terrified, when I tell her what he is wanted for, that she will do anything rather than have a scandal that would damage the reputation of the house." He assured Charlie that he need give the matter no further thought. All the arrangements would be made, and, unless he heard farther from him, he and Harry would only have to present themselves, at the door of the house in question, at two o'clock on the morning of Saturday. The evening with the duke passed off pleasantly. The general's questions turned, not so much upon the actual fighting, as upon the organization of the Swedes, their methods of campaigning, of victualling the army, of hutting themselves in winter, the maintenance of discipline in camp, and other military points that would be of service to him in his next campaign. "Your king is very wise, in so strictly repressing all plundering and violence," he said. "Only so can a general maintain an army in an enemy's country. If the peasantry have confidence in him, and know that they will get a fair price for their produce, they will bring it into the market gladly, in spite of any orders their own government may issue to the contrary. I am determined that, if I again lead an English army in the field, I will follow King Charles' example; though I shall find it more difficult to enforce my orders than he does, for he is king as well as general, and his Swedes are quiet, honest fellows, while my army will be composed of ne'er-do-wells--of men who prefer to wear the queen's uniform to a prison garment, of debtors who wish to escape their creditors, and of men who find village life too quiet for them, and prefer to see the world, even at the risk of being shot, to honest labour on the farms. It requires a stern hand to make a disciplined army out of such materials, but when the time of fighting comes, one need wish for no better." Before parting with them, the duke inquired farther into their arrangements for the arrest of the highwayman, and said he should expect to see them on Saturday, and that, if he heard that all had gone well, he would at once take steps for bringing the matter before a court that would deal with it. The young men felt restless, as the day approached. They had seen no more of Tony, but they felt complete confidence in him, and were sure that they would hear if any difficulties arose; but though, throughout Friday, they did not quit their lodging, no message reached them. Chapter 18: A Confession. At the appointed hour, as the clock of the Abbey was striking, they gave three gentle knocks at the door of the house. It was immediately opened by Tony, who held a candle in his hand, closed the door quietly behind them, and then led them into a parlour. "Well, Tony, I suppose all has gone well, as we have not heard from you." "There was nothing to tell you, sir, and, indeed, I have been mightily busy. In the first place, I got two days' leave from the courts, and went down myself, in a light cart, with the boys and two men. That way I made sure that there should be no mistake as to the houses the boys were to watch. The two men I sent on, ten miles beyond the farthest tavern there to watch the road, and if any horseman goes by tonight, to track him down. "This evening I came here. I brought with me one of my comrades from the courts, and we told the good woman the character of the lodger we had seen leave the house a quarter of an hour before. She almost fainted when we showed her our badges, and said we must arrest him, on his return, as a notorious highwayman and breaker of the laws. She exclaimed that her house would be ruined, and it took some time to pacify her, by saying that we would manage the job so quietly that no one in the house need know of it, and that we would, if possible, arrange it so that the place of his arrest should not be made public. "At that, she at once consented to do all that we wished her. We searched his room carefully, and found some watches, rings, and other matters, that answered to the description of those stolen from a coach that was stopped near Dorking, three weeks ago. My mate has taken them away. As she was afraid that a scuffle in the bedroom might attract the attention of the four other gentlemen who are lodging here, I arranged that it should be done at the door. In that case, if there was any inquiry in the morning, she could say that it was some drunken fellow, who had come to the house by mistake, and had tried to force his way in. "So she put this parlour at our disposal, and, as I have got the shutters up and the curtains drawn, there is no fear of his noticing the light, for, as we may have some hours to wait, it is more pleasant to have a candle, than to sit in the dark." "Does she come down to let him in?" Harry asked. "No, sir, the door is left on the latch. She says he finds his way up to his room, in the dark, and the candle and a tinderbox are always placed handy for him there. We will take our shoes off presently, and, when we hear footsteps come up to the door and stop, we will blow out the candle and steal out into the passage, so as to catch him directly he closes the door. I have got handcuffs here, some rope, and a gag." "Very well, then. I will undertake the actual seizing of him," Charlie said. "You slip on the handcuffs, and you, Harry, if you can find his throat in the dark, grip it pretty tightly, till Tony can slip the gag into his mouth. Then he can light the candle again, and we can then disarm and search him, fasten his legs, and get him ready to put in the cart." The hours passed slowly, although Tony did his best to divert them, by telling stories of various arrests and captures in which he had been concerned. The clock had just struck five, when they heard a step coming up the quiet street. "That is likely to be the man," Tony said. "It is about the hour we expected him." He blew out the candle and opened the door quietly, and they went out into the passage. A moment later the step stopped at the door, the latch clicked, and it was opened. A man entered, and closed the door behind him. As he did so Charlie, who had marked his exact position, made a step forward and threw his arms round him. The man gave an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and then struggled fiercely, but he was in the hands of one far stronger than himself. A moment later, he felt that his assailant was not alone, for he was grasped by the throat, and at the same time he felt something cold close round his wrists. There was a sharp click, and he knew that he was handcuffed. Then a low voice said, "I arrest you, in the name of the queen, for being concerned in the robbery of the Portsmouth coach at Dorking." Then a gag was forced between his teeth. Bewildered at the suddenness of the attack, he ceased to struggle, and remained quiet, in the grasp of his captors, till there was the sound of the striking of flint and steel hard by. Then Tony came out of the parlour with a lighted candle, the highwayman was lifted into the room, and the door was shut. He then saw that his captors were three in number. There were two young gentlemen, and a smaller man, who, as he looked at him, held out a badge, and showed that he was an officer of the law. His pistols and sword were removed, then his pockets were searched, and two watches and three purses, with some rings and bracelets, were taken out and laid on the table. "It came off, you see," Tony said to Charlie. "Well, Master Nicholson, to use one of your aliases, of which you have, no doubt, a score or more, you may consider yourself under arrest, not only for the robbery of the Portsmouth coach three weeks ago, but of the North coach last evening." The prisoner started. It seemed impossible to him that that affair should be known yet, still less his connection with it. "You know what that means?" Tony went on grimly. "Tyburn. Now I am going to make you a little safer still. You have been a hard bird to catch, and we don't mean to let you slip through our fingers again." So saying, he bound his arms closely to his side with a rope, and then, with a shorter piece, fastened his ankles securely together. "Now I will fetch the cart." He had been gone but five minutes, when they heard a vehicle stop at the door. The others lifted the highwayman by his shoulders and feet, carried him out, and laid him in the cart. Tony closed the door quietly behind them, and then jumped up by the side of the driver, who at once started the horse at a brisk trot. They crossed Westminster Bridge, and, after another ten minutes' drive, stopped at a small house standing back from the road, in a garden of its own. "We will carry him in, Tony," Charlie said, "if you will get the door open." They carried him in through the door, at which a woman was standing, into a room, where they saw, to their satisfaction, a blazing fire. The prisoner was laid down on the ground. Leaving him to himself, Charlie and his friends sat down to the table, which was laid in readiness. Two cold chickens, and ham, and bread had been placed on it. "Now, Tony, sit down. You must be as hungry as we are." "Thank you, gentlemen. I am going to have my breakfast in the kitchen, with my wife." As he spoke, the woman came in with two large tankards full of steaming liquid, whose odour at once proclaimed it to be spiced ale. "Well, wife, we have done a good night's work," Tony said. "A good night's work for all of us," Charlie put in. "Your husband has done us an immense service, Mrs. Peters, and, when our fathers come to their own again, they will not forget the service he has rendered us." When they had made a hearty meal, Tony was called in again. "Now, Tony, we will proceed to business. You have got pen and ink and paper, I suppose?" "I have everything ready, sir. I will clear away this table, so as to have all in order." When this was done, the highwayman was lifted up and placed in a chair, and the gag removed from his mouth. "You don't remember us, I suppose, my man?" Charlie began. "The last time I saw you was when I brought my stick down on your head, when you were listening outside a window at Lynnwood." An exclamation of surprise broke from the prisoner. "Yes, I am Charlie Carstairs, and this gentleman is Harry Jervoise. By the way, I have made a mistake. I have seen you twice since then. The first time was in a wayside tavern, some twelve miles beyond Barnet, nine days ago. The second time was at another tavern in Barnet. You will remember that a mischievous boy threw a stone, and broke one of the lattice panes of the window, where you were sitting talking over this little affair of the North coach." A deep execration broke from the lips of the highwayman. "Now you see how we know all about it," Charlie went on. "Now, it entirely depends on yourself whether, in the course of another hour, we shall hand you over to a magistrate, as the leader of the gang who robbed the North coach, and took part in the robbery near Dorking--we have found some of the watches and other plunder in your bedroom--or whether you escape trial for these offences. You may be wanted for other, similar affairs." "Yes, sir," Tony put in. "Now I see him, he answers exactly to the description of a man the officers have been in search of, for a long time. He goes by the name of Dick Cureton, and has been engaged in at least a dozen highway robberies, to my knowledge." "You see," Charlie went on, "there is no doubt whatever what will happen, if we hand you over to the officers. You will be hung at Tyburn, to a moral certainty. There is no getting out of that. "Now, on the other hand, you have the alternative of making a clean breast of your dealings with John Dormay, of how he put you at Lynnwood to act as a spy, how you hid those two letters he gave you in my father's cabinet, and how he taught you the lying story you afterwards told before the magistrates at Lancaster. After having this story written down, you will sign it in the presence of this officer and his wife, and you will also repeat that story before any tribunal before which you may be brought. "I don't know whether this is a hanging matter, but, at any rate, I can promise that you shall not be hung for it. The Duke of Marlborough has taken the matter in hand, and will, I have no doubt, be able to obtain for you some lesser punishment, if you make a clean breast of it. I don't say that you will be let free. You are too dangerous a man for that. But, at any rate, your punishment will not be a heavy one--perhaps nothing worse than agreeing to serve in the army. You understand that, in that case, nothing whatever will be said as to your being Dick Cureton, or of your connection with these last coach robberies. You will appear before the court simply as Robert Nicholson, who, having met Captain Jervoise and myself, felt constrained to confess the grievous wrong he did to our fathers, and other gentlemen, at the bidding of, and for money received from, John Dormay." "I do not need any time to make up my mind," the highwayman said. "I am certainly not going to be hung for the advantage of John Dormay, who has paid me poorly enough, considering that it was through me that he came into a fine estate. I take it that you give me your word of honour, that if I make a clean breast of it, and stick to my story afterwards, this other business shall not be brought up against me." "Yes, we both promise that on our word of honour." "Very well then; here goes." The story he told was in precise accordance with the suspicions that his hearers had entertained. He had been tramping through the country, sometimes pilfering, sometimes taking money as a footpad. He had, one day, met John Dormay and demanded his money. He was armed only with a heavy cudgel, and thought Dormay was defenceless. The latter, however, produced a pistol from his pocket, and compelled him to drop his stick; and then, taking him by the collar, made him walk to his house. He had asked him questions as to his previous life, and had then given him the choice of going to jail, or of acting under his instructions, in which case he would be well rewarded. Naturally, he had chosen the second alternative. And, having him completely under his thumb, John Dormay had made him sign a paper, acknowledging his attempt at highway robbery upon him. The rest of the story was already known to his hearers. He had, several times, overheard the conversations in the dining room, but had gathered nothing beyond talk of what would be done, if the Pretender came over. John Dormay had taught him the story of the assassination plot, and had given him the letters to hide. He now swore that the whole story was false, and had been told entirely at the dictation of John Dormay, and from fear of the consequence to himself, if he refused to obey his orders. When he had finished, Tony's wife was called in, and she made her mark, and her husband signed his name, as witnesses to the signature of Robert Nicholson. "Now, I hope I may have something to eat," the man said, recklessly. "I am ready to tell my story to whomsoever you like, but am not ready to be starved." "Give him food, Tony," Charlie said, "and keep a sharp lookout after him. We will go across, and show this paper to the duke." "I will bring the matter, at once, before the council," the general said, when Charlie gave him the document, and briefly stated its contents. "There is a meeting at three o'clock today. I shall see the queen previously, and will get her to interest herself in the matter, and to urge that justice shall be done without any delay. I will arrange that the man shall be brought before the council, at the earliest date possible. If you will come here this evening, I may be able to tell you more. Come at eight. I shall be in then to dress, as I take supper at the palace, at nine." "I have ventured to promise the man that he shall not be hung, my lord." "You were safe in doing so. The rogue deserves the pillory or branding, but, as he was almost forced into it, and was the mere instrument in the hands of another, it is not a case for hanging him. He might be shipped off to the plantations as a rogue and a vagabond. "What are you smiling at?" "I was thinking, sir, that, as you said there were a good many of that class in the army, the man might have the option of enlisting given him." "And so of getting shot in the Netherlands, instead of getting hung at Tyburn, eh? Well, I will see what I can do." At eight o'clock, they again presented themselves. The duke looked at them critically. "You will do," he said. "Put your cloaks on again, and come with me. Where do you suppose that you are going?" "Before the council, sir," Harry suggested. "Bless me, you don't suppose that your business is so pressing, that ministers have been summoned in haste to sit upon it. No, you are going to sup with the queen. I told her your story this afternoon. She was much interested in it, and when I informed her that, young as you both were, you had fought behind Charles of Sweden, in all his desperate battles, and that he had not only promoted you to the rank of captain, but that he had, under his own hand, given you a document expressing his satisfaction at your conduct and bravery, she said that I must bring you to supper at the palace. I told her that, being soldiers, you had brought with you no clothes fit for appearance at court; but, as at little gatherings there is no ceremony, she insisted that I should bring you as you are. "My wife Sarah went on half an hour ago, in her chair. There will probably be two others, possibly Godolphin and Harley, but more likely some courtier and his wife. "You do not feel nervous, I hope? After being accustomed to chat with Charles of Sweden, to say nothing of the Czar of Russia, Carstairs, you need not feel afraid of Queen Anne, who is good nature itself." Nevertheless, both the young men felt nervous. After being conducted up some private stairs, the duke led them into an oak-panelled room, of comparatively small size, lighted by numerous tapers, which displayed the rich hangings and furniture. A lady was sitting by the fire. A tall, handsome woman, with a somewhat imperious face, stood on the rug before her, talking to her, while a pleasant-looking man, who by his appearance and manner might have been taken for a country squire, was sitting opposite, playing with the ears of a spaniel lying on his knee. The tall lady moved aside, as they entered, and Charlie noticed a little glance of affectionate welcome pass between her and the duke--for the pair were devotedly attached to each other--then he bowed to the seated lady. "Madam," he said, "allow me to present to you the two young officers, of whose bravery Charles of Sweden has written so strongly, and whose parents have, with other gentlemen, been driven from the land by villainy." The young men bowed deeply. Anne held out her hand, and each in turn, bending on one knee, raised it to his lips. "There," she said, "let that be the beginning and end of ceremony. This is not a court gathering, but a family meeting. I want to hear your stories, and I want you, for the time, to forget that I am Anne of England. I know that your fathers have always been faithful to our house, and I hope that their sons will, ere long, do as good service for me as they have done for a foreign prince. "You have not seen these gentlemen yet, Sarah?" "No, my husband has kept them to himself." "I have had but little time to give them, Sarah, and wanted it all, to question them on the Swedish modes of warfare." "And you thought I should be an interruption? "I am glad to meet you both, nevertheless. Since my husband likes you, I am sure to do so;" and she smiled pleasantly, as she gave a hand to each. They were then introduced to the Prince Consort, George of Denmark. At this moment, supper was announced. The queen and the duchess went in together, followed by the four gentlemen. "Lord Godolphin and Mr. Harley were to have been of the party tonight," the queen said, as she took her seat at table, "but I put them off till tomorrow, as I wanted to hear these gentlemen's story." During the meal, the conversation was gay. As soon as the last dish was removed, the party returned to the other room. Then the queen called upon the young men to tell their story. Charlie began, and related up to the time when he had aided in the rescue of his father from the hands of his escort. Harry told the story of their military experiences, and then Charlie related his narrow escape at Warsaw, his adventure with the brigands, and the fight with the wolves. "That is the most exciting of all," the queen said. "I think that even you, general, would rather have gone through the battle of Narva, than have spent that night among the wolves." "That would I, indeed, madam, and I doubt if I should have got as well through it as Captain Carstairs did. I am sure, madam, you will agree with me, that these young gentlemen ought to be fighting under our flag, rather than that of Sweden. There is no blame to them, for they were most unjustly driven from the country; but I hope that, by Monday at this time, I shall have the pleasure of presenting a document for your majesty's signature, stating that, in the opinion of the council, a very grave miscarriage of justice has taken place; and that the gentlemen, whose estates were four years ago confiscated, are proved to be innocent of the crime of which they were accused, and are true and faithful subjects of your majesty; and that the proceedings against them are hereby quashed, and their estates restored to them. "I had the honour of relating to you, this afternoon, the manner in which these gentlemen have succeeded in bringing the truth to light." Shortly afterwards, the party broke up, the queen speaking most graciously to each of the young men. On Monday morning, they received a summons to appear before the council, at two o'clock in the afternoon, and to produce one Robert Nicholson, whose evidence was required in a matter of moment. They hired a carriage, and took the highwayman with them to Saint James's, and were conducted to the council chamber; where they found Lord Godolphin, the Marquis of Normanby, Mr. Harley, and the Duke of Marlborough, together with two judges, before whom the depositions, in the case of Sir Marmaduke Carstairs and his friends, had been laid. Lord Normanby, as privy seal, took the chair, and briefly said that, having heard there had been a grievous miscarriage of justice, he had summoned them to hear important evidence which was produced by Captains Carstairs and Jervoise, officers in the service of the king of Sweden. "What have you to say, Captain Carstairs?" "I have, sir, only to testify that this man, who stands beside me, is Robert Nicholson, who was in my father's employment for two years, and was, I believe, the principal witness against him. Captain Jervoise can also testify to his identity. I now produce the confession, voluntarily made by this man, and signed in the presence of witnesses." He handed in the confession, which was read aloud by a clerk standing at the lower end of the table. A murmur of indignation arose from the council, as he concluded. "You have acted the part of a base villain," Lord Normanby said to Nicholson. "Hanging would be too good for such a caitiff. What induced you to make this confession?" "I have long repented my conduct," the man said. "I was forced into acting as I did, by John Dormay, who might have had me hung for highway robbery. I would long ago have told the truth, had I known where to find the gentlemen I have injured; and, meeting them by chance the other day, I resolved upon making a clean breast of it, and to take what punishment your lordships may think proper; hoping, however, for your clemency, on account of the fact that I was driven to act in the way I did." One of the judges, who had the former depositions before him, asked him several questions as to the manner in which he had put the papers into Sir Marmaduke's cabinet. He replied that he found the key in a vase on the mantel, and after trying several locks with it, found that it fitted the cabinet. "His statement agrees, my lords," the judge said, "with that made by Sir Marmaduke Carstairs in his examinations. He then said that he could not account for the papers being in his cabinet, for it was never unlocked, and that he kept the key in a vase on the mantel, where none would be likely to look for it." In a short time, all present were requested to withdraw, but in less than five minutes they were again called in. "Gentlemen," Lord Normanby said to the young officers, "I have pleasure in informing you, that the council are of opinion that the innocence of your fathers and friends, of the foul offence of which they were charged, is clearly proven; and that they have decided that the sentence passed against them, in their absence, shall be quashed. They will also recommend, to her majesty, that the sentence of confiscation against them all shall be reversed. "As to you, sir, seeing that you have, however tardily, endeavoured to undo the evil you have caused, we are disposed to deal leniently, and, at the request of the Duke of Marlborough, we have agreed, if you are ready to leave the country and enlist at once, as a soldier in the army of Flanders, and there to expiate your fault by fighting in the service of your country, we will not recommend that any proceedings shall be taken against you. But if, at any time, you return hither, save as a soldier with a report of good conduct, this affair will be revived, and you will receive the full punishment you deserve. "For the present you will be lodged in prison, as you will be needed to give evidence, when the matter of John Dormay comes up for hearing." Nicholson was at once removed in custody. The two young officers retired, an usher bringing them a whispered message, from Marlborough, that they had better not wait to see him, as the council might sit for some time longer; but that, if they would call at his house at five o'clock, after his official reception, he would see them. "This is more than we could have hoped for," Harry said, as they left Saint James's. "A fortnight ago, although I had no intention of giving up the search, I began to think that our chances of ever setting eyes on that rascal were of the slightest; and now everything has come right. The man has been found. He has been made to confess the whole matter. The case has been heard by the council. Our fathers are free to return to England, and their estates are restored to them; at least, the council recommends the queen, and we know the queen is ready to sign. So that it is as good as done." "It seems too good to be true." "It does, indeed, Charlie. They will be delighted across the water. I don't think my father counted, at all, upon our finding Nicholson, or of our getting him to confess; but I think he had hoped that the duke would interest himself to get an order, that no further proceedings should be taken in the matter of the alleged plot. That would have permitted them to return to England. He spoke to me, several times, of his knowledge of the duke when he was a young man; but Churchill, he said, was a time server, and has certainly changed his politics several times; and, if a man is fickle in politics, he may be so in his friendships. It was a great many years since they had met, and Marlborough might not have been inclined to acknowledge one charged with so serious a crime. "But, as he said to me before I started, matters have changed since the death of William. Marlborough stands far higher, with Anne, than he did with William. His leanings have certainly been, all along, Jacobite, and, now that he and the Tories are in power, and the Whigs are out of favour, Marlborough could, if he chose, do very much for us. It is no longer a crime to be a Jacobite, and indeed, they say that the Tories are intending to upset the act of succession, and bring in a fresh one, making James Stuart the successor to Anne. "Still, even if we had succeeded so far, by Marlborough's influence, that our fathers could have returned to England without fear of being tried for their lives, I do not think that either of them would have come, so long as the charge of having been concerned in an assassination plot was hanging over them. "Now that they are cleared, and can come back with honour, it will be different, altogether. It will be glorious news for them. Of course, we shall start as soon as we get the official communication that the estates are restored. We shall only have to go back to them, for, as you know, yours is the only estate that has been granted to anyone else. The others were put up for sale, but no one would bid for them, as the title deeds would have been worth nothing if King James came over. So they have only been let to farmers, and we can walk straight in again, without dispossessing anyone." "I don't know what to do about John Dormay," Charlie said. "There is no doubt that, from what the judge said, they will prosecute him." "So they ought to," Harry broke in. "He has striven, by false swearing, to bring innocent men to the scaffold. Why, it is worse than murder." "I quite agree with you, Harry, and, if I were in your place, I would say just as strongly as you do that he ought to be hung. But you see, I am differently situated. The man is a kinsman of ours by marriage. My cousin Celia has been always most kind to me, and is my nearest relative after my father. She has been like an aunt, and, indeed, did all she could to supply the place of a mother to me; and I am sure my little sweetheart Ciceley has been like a sister. This must have been a most terrible trial to them. It was a bad day for cousin Celia when she married that scoundrel, and I am sure that he has made her life a most unhappy one. Still, for their sake, I would not see his villainy punished as it deserves, nor indeed for our own, since the man is, to a certain extent, our kinsman. "Besides, Harry, as you must remember well enough, Ciceley and I, in boy and girl fashion, used to say we should be some day husband and wife, and I have never since seen anyone whom I would so soon marry as my bonny little cousin; and if Ciceley is of the same mind, maybe some day or other she may come to Lynnwood as its mistress; but that could hardly be, if her father were hung for attempting to swear away the life of mine." "No, indeed, Charlie. I know how fond you were of your cousin." "Indeed, Harry, there was a talk between my father and cousin Celia, a few months before the troubles came, of a formal betrothal between us, and, had it not been for the coolness between our fathers, it would have taken place." "Yes, I remember now your telling me about it, Charlie. "Well, what is to be done? for I agree with you that, if possible, John Dormay must escape from the punishment he deserves. But how is it to be done?" "Well, Harry, a week or two will make no difference to our fathers. They will have no expectation of hearing from us, for a long time to come. I should say it were best that I should go down and warn him, and I shall be glad if you will go with me." "Of course I will go," Harry said. "Indeed, it were best that the warning came from me. The man is a villain, and a reckless one; and in his passion, when he hears that his rascality is known, the prize for which he schemed snatched from him, and his very life in danger, might even seek to vent his rage and spite upon you. Now it is clear, Charlie, that you could not very well kill a man, and afterwards marry his daughter. The thing would be scarce seemly. But the fellow is no kinsman of mine. He has grievously injured us, and I could kill him without the smallest compunction, and thereby rid the world of a scoundrel, and you of a prospective father-in-law of the most objectionable kind." Charlie laughed. "No, Harry; we will have no killing. We will go down and see him together. We will let him know that the orders are probably already on the road for his arrest, and that he had best lose not an hour, but at once cross the water. I should not think that he would wish to encumber himself with women, for I never thought he showed the least affection to either his wife or daughter. At any rate, we will see that he does not take them with him. I will tell him that, if he goes, and goes alone, I will do my best to hush up the matter; and that, so long as he remains abroad, the tale of his villainy shall never be told; but that, if he returns, the confession of Nicholson shall be published throughout the country, even if no prosecution is brought against him." When they called upon the duke, he shook them warmly by the hand. "This parchment is the royal assent to the decision of the council, that the estates of those inculpated in the alleged plot for the assassination of the late king should be forthwith restored to them, it having been clearly proved that they have been falsely accused of the said crime, and that her majesty is satisfied that these gentlemen are her true and loyal subjects. "I think I may say," the duke continued with a smile, "that no affair of state has ever been so promptly conducted and carried through." "We feel how deeply indebted we are, for our good fortune, to your kindness, your grace," Charlie said. "We know that, but for you, months might have elapsed, even years, before we could have obtained such a result, even after we had the confession of Nicholson in our hands." "I am glad, in every way, to have been able to bring this about," the duke said. "In the first place, because I have been able to right a villainous piece of injustice; in the second, because those injured were loyal gentlemen, with no fault save their steadfast adherence to the cause of the Stuarts; and lastly, because one of these gentlemen was my own good friend, Mat Jervoise, of whose company I have so many pleasant recollections. "I hope that, as soon as you have informed your fathers that their names are cleared, and their property restored, you will think of what I said, and will decide to quit the service of Sweden, and enter that of your queen. "An officer fighting for a foreign monarch is, after all, but a soldier of fortune, however valiantly he fights. He is fighting for a cause that is not his own, and, though he may win rewards and honours, he has not the satisfaction that all must feel who have risked their lives, not for gold, but in the service of their country. But I do not want any answer from you on that head now. It is a matter for you to decide upon after due thought. I only say that I shall go out, early in the spring, to take command of the army; and that, if you present yourselves to me before I leave, I shall be glad to appoint you on my personal staff, with the same rank you now hold. "You can now leave the country without any farther trouble. As to the affair of the man Dormay, a messenger has been sent off, this afternoon, with an order to the magistrates at Lancaster, to arrest him on the charge of suborning false evidence, by which the lives of some of her majesty's subjects were endangered; and of forging letters whereby such evil designs might be furthered. I do not suppose I shall see you again before you sail, for tomorrow we go down to our country place, and may remain there some weeks. I may say that it was the desire to get your affair finished, before we left town, that conduced somewhat to the speed with which it has been carried through." After again thanking the duke most warmly for his kindness, and saying that they would lay his offer before their fathers, and that their own inclinations were altogether in favour of accepting it, the young men took their leave. "It is unfortunate about Dormay." "Most unfortunate," Harry said. "I think, if we start tomorrow morning, Harry, we shall be in time. There is no reason why the messenger should travel at any extraordinary speed, and, as he may be detained at Lancaster, and some delay may arise before officers are sent up to Lynnwood to make the arrest, we may be in time. "We must take a note of the date. It is one we shall remember all our lives. It is the 25th of November, and we will keep it up as a day of festivity and rejoicing, as long as we live." "That will we," Harry agreed. "It shall be the occasion of an annual gathering of those who got into trouble from those suppers at Sir Marmaduke's. I fancy the others are all in France, but their friends will surely be able to let them know, as soon as they hear the good news. "I think we shall have a stormy ride tomorrow. The sky looks very wild and threatening." "It does, indeed; and the wind has got up very much, in the last hour.'' "Yes, we are going to have a storm, beyond all doubt." The wind got up hourly, and when, before going to bed, they went to pass an hour at a tavern, they had difficulty in making their way against it. Several times in the night they were awoke by the gusts, which shook the whole house, and they heard the crashing of falling chimney pots above the din of the gale. They had arranged to start as soon as it was light, and had, the evening before, been to a posting inn, and engaged a carriage with four horses for the journey down to Lancashire. "There is no starting today, gentlemen," the landlord said, as they went down to breakfast by candlelight. "I have looked out, and the street is strewn with chimney pots and tiles. Never do I remember such a gale, and hour by hour it seems to get worse. Why, it is dangerous to go across the street." "Well, we must try," Charlie said, "whatever the weather. It is a matter of almost life and death." "Well, gentlemen, you must please yourselves, but I am mistaken if any horse keeper will let his animals out, on such a day as this." As soon as they had eaten their breakfasts, they wrapped themselves up in their cloaks, pressed their hats over their heads, and sallied out. It was not until they were in the streets that they realized how great was the force of the gale. Not only were the streets strewn with tiles and fragments of chimney pots, but there was light enough for them to see that many of the upper windows of the houses had been blown in by the force of the wind. Tiles flew about like leaves in autumn, and occasionally gutters and sheets of lead, stripped from the roofs, flew along with prodigious swiftness. "This is as bad as a pitched battle, Charlie. I would as lief be struck by a cannonball as by one of those strips of lead." "Well, we must risk it, Harry. We must make the attempt, anyhow." It was with the greatest difficulty that they made their way along. Although powerful young fellows, they were frequently obliged to cling to the railings, to prevent themselves from being swept away by the gusts, and they had more than one narrow escape from falling chimneys. Although the distance they had to traverse was not more than a quarter of a mile, it took them half an hour to accomplish it. The post master looked at them in surprise, as they entered his office flushed and disordered. "Why, gentlemen, you are not thinking of going on such a day as this? It would be a sheer impossibility. Why, the carriage would be blown over, and if it wasn't, no horses would face this wind." "We would be willing to pay anything you may like to ask," Charlie said. "It ain't a question of money, sir. If you were to buy the four horses and the carriage, you would be no nearer, for no post boy would be mad enough to ride them; and, even supposing you got one stage, which you never would do, you would have to buy horses again, for no one would be fool enough to send his animals out. You could not do it, sir. Why, I hear there are half a dozen houses, within a dozen yards of this, that have been altogether unroofed, and it is getting worse instead of better. If it goes on like this, I doubt if there will be a steeple standing in London tomorrow. "Listen to that!" There was a tremendous crash, and, running out into the street, they saw a mass of beams and tiles lying in the roadway--a house two doors away had been completely unroofed. They felt that, in such a storm, it was really impossible to proceed, and accordingly returned to their lodgings, performing the distance in a fraction of the time it had before taken them. For some hours the gale continued to increase in fury. Not a soul was to be seen in the streets. Occasional heavy crashes told of the damage that was being wrought, and, at times, the house shook so that it seemed as if it would fall. Never was such a storm known in England. The damage done was enormous. The shores were strewn with wrecks. Twelve ships of the royal navy, with fifteen hundred men, were lost; and an enormous number of merchant vessels. Many steeples, houses, and buildings of all kinds were overthrown, and the damage, in London alone, was estimated at a million pounds. There were few who went to bed that night. Many thought that the whole city would be destroyed. Towards morning, however, the fury of the gale somewhat abated, and by nightfall the danger had passed. The next morning the two friends started, and posted down to Lancashire. The journey was a long one. In many places the road was completely blocked by fallen trees, and sometimes by the ruins of houses and barns. In the former case, long detours had often to be made through villainous roads, where the wheels sank almost to their axles, and, in spite of the most liberal bribes to post boys and post masters, the journey occupied four days longer than the usual time. At last, they reached the lodge gate of Lynnwood. A man came out from the cottage. He was the same who had been there in Sir Marmaduke's time. Charlie jumped out of the post chaise. "Why, Norman, don't you know me?" The man looked hard at him. "No, sir, I can't say as I do." "What, not Charlie Carstairs?" "Bless me, it is the young master!" the man said. "To think of my not knowing you. But you have changed wonderful. Why, sir, I have been thinking of you often and often, and most of all the last three days, but I never thought of you like this." "Why the last three days, Norman?" "Haven't you heard the news, sir?" "No, I have heard nothing. Captain Jervoise and I--my old friend, you know, Norman--have posted all the way from London, and should have been here six days ago, if it had not been for the storm." "Well, sir, there is bad news; at least, I don't know whether you will consider it bad. Most of the folk about here looks at it the other way. But the man in there shot hisself, three days ago. A magistrate, with some men from Lancaster, came over here. They say it was to arrest him, but I don't know the rights of the case. Anyhow, it is said they read some paper over to him, and then he opened a drawer at the table where he was sitting, and pulled out a pistol, and shot hisself before anyone could stop him. "There have been bad goings here of late, Mr. Charles, very bad, especially for the last year. He was not friends with his son, they say, but the news of his death drove him to drink, worse than before; and besides, there have been dicing, and all sorts of goings on, and I doubt not but that the ladies have had a terrible time of it. There were several men staying in the house, but they all took themselves off, as soon as it was over, and there are only the ladies there now. They will be glad enough to see you, I will be bound." Charlie was shocked; but at the same time, he could not but feel that it was the best thing that could happen, and Harry freely expressed himself to that effect. "We won't take the carriage up to the house," Charlie said, after a long pause. "Take the valises out, and bring them up to the house presently, Norman." He paid the postilion who had brought them from Lancaster, and stood quiet until the carriage had driven off. "I hope Sir Marmaduke is well, sir. We have missed him sorely here." "He was quite well when I saw him, ten weeks ago. I hope he will be here before long. I am happy to say that his innocence of the charge brought against him has been proved, and his estates, and those of Mr. Jervoise and the other gentlemen, have been restored by the queen." "That is good news, indeed, sir," the man exclaimed. "The best I have heard for many a long year. Everyone about here will go wild with joy." "Then don't mention it at present, Norman. Any rejoicings would be unseemly, while John Dormay is lying dead there." "Shall I go up with you, Charlie, or will you go alone?" Harry asked. "Of course, there are some horses here, and you could lend me one to drive over to our own place." "You shall do that presently, Harry, and tell them the news. But come in now. You know my cousin and Ciceley. It will be all the better that you should go in with me." His cousin received Charlie with a quiet pleasure. She was greatly changed since he had seen her last, and her face showed that she had suffered greatly. Ciceley had grown into a young woman, and met him with delight. Both were pleased to see Harry. "We were talking of you but now, Charlie," Mrs. Dormay said. "Ciceley and I agreed that we would remove at once to our old place, and that this should be kept up for you, should you at any time be able to return. Now that Queen Anne is on the throne, and the Tories are in power, we hoped that you, at least, would ere long be permitted to return. How is your dear father?" "He is well, cousin, and will, I trust, be here ere long. Our innocence of the charge has been proved, the proceedings against us quashed, and the Act of Confiscation against my father, Mr. Jervoise, and the others reversed." "Thank God for that," Mrs. Dormay said earnestly, and Ciceley gave an exclamation of pleasure. "That accounts, then, for what has happened here. "I do not want to talk about it, Charlie. You may imagine how Ciceley and I have suffered. But he was my husband, spare him for my sake." "I will never allude to the subject again, cousin," Charlie said. "But I must tell you that Harry and I have posted down from London, in hopes of being in time to warn him, and enable him to escape. I need not say we did so because he was your husband, and Ciceley's father." Harry then turned the subject, by a remark as to the effects of the storm. Then Ciceley asked questions as to their life abroad, and there was so much to tell, and to listen to, that even Mrs. Dormay's face brightened. Harry willingly allowed himself to be persuaded to remain for the night, and to ride over to his place in the morning. The funeral took place two days later. Charlie went as sole mourner. "He was my kinsman," he said to Harry, "and, though I can pretend no sorrow at his death, my attendance at the funeral will do something towards stopping talk, and will make it easier for my cousin." The next day, Mrs. Dormay and Ciceley returned to Rockley, whose tenant had fortunately left a few weeks before. Charlie and Harry both went over with them, and stayed for three or four days, and they were glad to see that Mrs. Dormay seemed to be shaking off the weight of her trouble, and was looking more like her old self. They then rode to Lancaster, and returned to London by coach. They crossed to Gottenburg by the first vessel that was sailing, and Sir Marmaduke was delighted to hear the success of their mission, and that he was at liberty to return at once, as master of Lynnwood. "Luck favoured you somewhat, Charlie, in throwing that vagabond in your way, but for all else we have to thank you both, for the manner in which you have carried the affair out, and captured your fox. As for John Dormay, 'tis the best thing that could have happened. I have often thought it over, while you have been away, and have said to myself that the best settlement of the business would be that you, Harry, when you obtained proofs, should go down, confront him publicly, and charge him with his treachery, force him to draw, and then run him through the body. Charlie would, of course, have been the proper person, in my absence, so to settle the matter, but he could not well have killed my cousin's husband, and it would have added to the scandal. "However, the way it has turned out is better altogether. It will be only a nine days' wonder. The man has been cut by all the gentry, and when it is known that he shot himself to escape arrest, many will say that it was a fit ending, and will trouble themselves no more concerning him. "You are coming back with me, I hope, Charlie. I have seen but little of you for the last four years, and if you are, as you say, going with the Duke of Marlborough to the war in the spring, I don't want to lose sight of you again till then. You can surely resign your commission here without going back to the army, especially as you have leave of absence until the end of March." Charlie hesitated. "I think so, too," Harry said. "I know that the colonel told the king the whole story, when he asked for leave for me and obtained that paper. He told my father that the king was greatly interested, and said: 'I hope the young fellows will succeed, though I suppose, if they do, I shall lose two promising young officers.' So he will not be surprised when he hears that we have resigned. "As for me, I shall, of course, go on at once. My father will, I am sure, be delighted to return home. The hardships have told upon him a good deal, and he has said several times, of late, how much he wished he could see his way to retiring. I think, too, he will gladly consent to my entering our own service, instead of that of Sweden. He would not have done so, I am sure, had William been still on the throne. Now it is altogether different." "Well, Harry, if you do see the king, as it is possible you may do, or if you do not, you might speak to the colonel, and ask him, in my name, to express to Charles my regret at leaving his service, in which I have been so well treated, and say how much I feel the kindly interest that his majesty has been pleased to take in me. If there had been any chance of the war coming to an end shortly, I should have remained to see it out; but, now that the Polish business may be considered finished, it will be continued with Russia, and may go on for years, for the czar is just as obstinate and determined as Charles himself." Accordingly, the next morning, Charlie sent in the formal resignation of his commission to the war minister at Stockholm, and Harry left by ship for Revel. Sir Marmaduke placed his business affairs in the hands of a Scotch merchant at Gottenburg, with instructions to call in the money he had lent on mortgage, and, two days later, took passage with Charlie for Hull, whence they posted across the country to Lancaster, and then drove to Lynnwood. As soon as the news spread that Sir Marmaduke had returned, the church bells rang a joyous peal, bonfires were lighted, the tenants flocked in to greet him, and the gentry for miles round rode over to welcome and congratulate him. The next morning he and Charlie rode over to Rockley. "Oh, Marmaduke," cried Celia, "I am happy indeed to know that you are back again. I have never known a day's happiness since you went." "Well, don't let us think any more about it, Celia," Sir Marmaduke said, as he kissed her tenderly. "Let us look on it all as an ugly dream. It has not been without its advantages, as far as we are concerned. It has taken me out of myself, and broadened my view of things. I have not had at all an unpleasant time of it in Sweden, and shall enjoy my home all the more, now that I have been away from it for a while. As to Charlie, it has made a man of him. He has gained a great deal of credit, and had opportunities of showing that he is made of good stuff; and now he enters upon life with every advantage, and has a start, indeed, such as very few young fellows can have. He enters our army as a captain, under the eye of Marlborough himself, with a reputation gained under that of the greatest soldier in Europe. "So we have no reason to regret the past, cousin, and on that score you have no cause for grief. As to the future, I trust that it will be bright for both of us, and I think," he added meaningly, "our former plans for our children are likely to be some day realized." Four years later, indeed, the union that both parents had at heart took place, during one of the pauses of the fierce struggle between the British forces under Marlborough, and the French. At Blenheim, Ramillies, and Oudenarde, and in several long and toilsome sieges, Charlie had distinguished himself greatly, and was regarded by Marlborough as one of the most energetic and trustworthy of his officers. He had been twice severely wounded, and had gained the rank of colonel. Harry Jervoise--who had had a leg shot away, below the knee, by a cannonball at Ramillies, and had then left the army with the rank of major--was, on the same day as his friend, married to the daughter of one of the gentlemen who had been driven into exile with his father. In the spring Charlie again joined the army, and commanded a brigade in the desperate struggle on the hill of Malplaquet, one of the hardest fought battles in the history of war. Peace was made shortly afterwards, and, at the reduction of the army that followed, he went on half pay, and settled down for life at Lynnwood, where Tony Peters and his wife had, at the death of the former occupant of the lodge, been established. When Harry Jervoise returned to the Swedish headquarters, with the news that his father was cleared, he was the bearer of a very handsome present from Charlie to his faithful servant Stanislas, who had, on their return from Poland, been at once employed by Count Piper on other service. When, years afterwards, the young Pretender marched south with the Highland clans, neither Charlie nor Harry were among the gentlemen who joined him. He had their good wishes, but, having served in the British army, they felt that they could not join the movement in arms against the British crown; and indeed, the strong Jacobite feelings of their youth had been greatly softened down by their contact with the world, and they had learned to doubt much whether the restoration of the Stuarts would tend, in any way, to the benefit or prosperity of Britain. They felt all the more obliged to stand aloof from the struggle, inasmuch as both had sons, in the army, that had fought valiantly against the French at Dettingen and Fontenoy. The families always remained united in the closest friendship, and more than one marriage took place between the children of Charlie Carstairs and Harry Jervoise. 29617 ---- _The_ VAGRANT DUKE BY GEORGE GIBBS The Vagrant Duke The Splendid Outcast The Black Stone The Golden Bough The Secret Witness Paradise Garden The Yellow Dove The Flaming Sword Madcap The Silent Battle The Maker of Opportunities The Forbidden Way The Bolted Door Tony's Wife The Medusa Emerald D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Publishers New York [Illustration: PETER STRUCK HIM FULL ON THE HEAD] _The_ VAGRANT DUKE BY GEORGE GIBBS AUTHOR OF "THE SPLENDID OUTCAST," "THE YELLOW DOVE," "THE SECRET WITNESS," ETC. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK LONDON 1921 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Copyright, 1920, by The Story Press Corporation PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE PROLOGUE 1 I INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS 15 II NEW YORK 27 III THE OVERALL GIRL 42 IV THE JOB 56 V NEW ELEMENTS 71 VI THE HOUSE OF TERROR 88 VII MUSIC 105 VIII THE PLACARD 121 IX SHAD IS UNPLEASANT 137 X "HAWK" 153 XI ANCIENT HISTORY 170 XII CONFESSION 186 XIII THE CHASE 207 XIV TWO LETTERS 226 XV SUPERMAN 236 XVI IDENTIFICATION 253 XVII PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR 266 XVIII FACE TO FACE 276 XIX YAKIMOV REVEALS HIMSELF 291 XX THE RUSSIAN PAYS 308 XXI THE INFERNO 326 XXII RETRIBUTION 343 XXIII A VISITOR 357 _The_ VAGRANT DUKE THE VAGRANT DUKE _PROLOGUE_ _At the piano a man sat playing the "Revolutionary Étude" of Chopin. The room was magnificent in its proportions, its furnishings were massive, its paneled oak walls were hung with portraits of men and women in the costumes of a bygone day. Through the lofty windows, the casements of which were open to the evening sky there was a vista of forest and meadow-land stretching interminably to the setting sun. The mosquelike cupola of a village church, a few versts distant, glimmered like a pearl in the dusky setting of wooded hills, and close by it, here and there, tiny spirals of opalescent smoke marked the dwellings of Zukovo village._ _But the man at the piano was detached, a being apart from this scene of quiet, absorbed in his piano, which gave forth the turbulence which had been in the soul of the great composer. The expression upon the dark face of the young musician was rapt and eager, until he crashed the chords to their triumphant conclusion when he sank back in his chair with a gasp, his head bent forward upon his breast, his dark gaze fixed upon the keys which still echoed with the tumult._ _It was at this moment that a door at the side of the room was opened and a white-haired man in purple livery entered and stood in silence regarding rather wistfully the man at the piano, who raised his head abruptly like one startled from a dream._ _"What is it, Vasili?" asked the musician._ _The servant approached softly a few steps._ _"I did not wish to intrude, Highness, but----"_ _As the old servant hesitated, the young man shrugged and rose, disclosing a tall, straight figure, clad in a dark blue blouse, loose trousers and brown boots liberally bespattered with mud. The glow of the sun which shot across his face as he came forward into the light, showed swarthy features, level brows, a straight nose, a well turned chin, a small mustache and a generous mouth which revealed a capacity for humor. He was quite calm now, and the tones of his voice were almost boyish in their confidence and gayety._ _"Well, what is it, Vasili?" he repeated. "You have the air of one with much on your conscience. Out with it. Has Sacha been fighting with you again?"_ _"No, Master, not Sacha," said the old man clearing his throat nervously, "it is something worse--much worse than Sacha."_ _"Impossible!" said the other with a laugh as he took up a cigarette from the table. "Nothing could be worse than a Russian cook when she gets into a rage----"_ _"But it is, Master--something worse--much worse----"_ _"Really! You alarm me." The Grand Duke threw himself into an armchair and inhaled luxuriously of his cigarette. And then with a shrug, "Well?"_ _The old man came a pace or two nearer muttering hoarsely, "They've broken out in the village again," he gasped._ _The Grand Duke's brow contracted suddenly._ _"H-m. When did this happen?"_ _"Last night. And this morning they burned the stables of Prince Galitzin and looted the castle."_ _The young man sprang to his feet._ _"You are sure of this?"_ _"Yes, Master. The word was brought by Serge Andriev less than ten minutes ago."_ _He took a few rapid paces up and down the room, stopping by the open window and staring out._ _"Fools!" he muttered to himself. Then turning to the old servitor, "But, Vasili--why is it that I have heard nothing of this? To-day Conrad, the forester, said nothing to me. And the day before yesterday in the village the people swept off their caps to me--as in the old days. I could have sworn everything would be peaceful at Zukovo--at least, for the present----" he added as though in an afterthought._ _"I pray God that may be true," muttered Vasili uncertainly. And then with unction, "In their hearts, they still love you, Highness. They are children--your children, their hearts still full of reverence for the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch in whom runs the same blood as that which ran in the sacred being of the Little Father--but their brains! They are drunk with the poison poured into their minds by the Committeemen from Moscow."_ _"Ah," eagerly, "they returned?"_ _"Last night," replied the old man wagging his head. "And your people forgot all that you had said to them--all that they owe to you. They are mad," he finished despairingly, "mad!"_ _The Grand Duke had folded his arms and was staring out of the window toward the white dome of the church now dyed red like a globule of blood in the sunset._ _The old man watched him for a moment, all the fealty of his many years of service in his gaze and attitude._ _"I do not like the look of things, Highness. What does it matter how good their hearts are if their brains are bad?"_ _"I must go and talk with them, Vasili," said the Grand Duke quietly._ _The old man took a step forward._ _"If I might make so free----"_ _"Speak----"_ _"Not to-night, Master----"_ _"Why not?"_ _"It will be dangerous. Last night their voices were raised even against you."_ _"Me! Why? Have I not done everything I could to help them? I am their friend--because I believe in their cause: and they will get their rights too but not by burning and looting----"_ _"And murder, Master. Two of Prince Galitzin's foresters were killed."_ _The Grand Duke turned. "That's bad. Murder in Zukovo!" He flicked his extinguished cigarette out of the window and made a gesture with his hand._ _"Go, Vasili. I want to think. I will ring if I need you."_ _"You will not go to Zukovo to-night?"_ _"I don't know."_ _And with another gesture he waved the servant away._ _When Vasili had gone, the Grand Duke sat, his legs across the chair by the window, his arms folded along its back while his dark eyes peered out, beyond the hills and forests, beyond the reddened dome of the village church into the past where his magnificent father Nicholas Petrovitch held feudal sway over all the land within his vision and his father's fathers from the time of his own great namesake held all Russia in the hollow of their hands._ _The Grand Duke's eyes were hard and bright above the slightly prominent cheek bones, the vestiges of his Oriental origin, but there was something of his English mother too in the contours of his chin and lips, which tempered the hardness of his expression. The lines at his brows were not the savage marks of anger, or the vengefulness that had characterized the pitiless blood which ran in his veins, but rather were they lines of disappointment, of perplexity at the problem that confronted him, and pity for his people who did not know where to turn for guidance. He still believed them to be his people, a heritage from his lordly parent, his children, who were responsible to him and to whom he was responsible. It was a habit of thought, inalienable, the product of the ages. But it was the calm philosophy of his English mother that had first given him his real sense of obligation to them, her teachings, even before the war began, that had shown him how terrible were the problems that confronted his future._ _His service in the Army had opened his eyes still wider and when Russia had deserted her allies he had returned to Zukovo to begin the work of reconstruction in the ways his awakened conscience had dictated. He had visited their homes, offered them counsel, given them such money as he could spare, and had, he thought, become their friend as well as their hereditary guardian. All had gone well at first. They had listened to him, accepted his advice and his money and renewed their fealty under the new order of things, vowing that whatever happened elsewhere in Russia, blood and agony and starvation should not visit Zukovo._ _But the news that Vasili brought was disquieting. It meant that the minds of his people were again disturbed. And the fact that Prince Galitzin had always been hated made the problems the Grand Duke faced none the less difficult. For his people had burned, pillaged and killed. They had betrayed him. And he had learned in the Army what fire and the smell of blood could do...._ _With a quick nod of resolution he rose. He would go to them. He knew their leaders. They would listen to him. They_ must _listen...._ _He closed the piano carefully, putting away the loose sheets of music, picked up his cap and heavy riding crop from the divan, on his way to the door, pausing, his hand on the bell-rope as a thought brought a deeper frown to his brow.... Why had Conrad Grabar, his chief forester, said nothing to-day? He must have known--for news such as this travels from leaf to leaf through the forest. Conrad! And yet he would have sworn by the faithfulness of his old friend and hunting companion. Perhaps Conrad had not known...._ _The Grand Duke pulled the bell-rope, then went to the window again and stood as though listening for the voices of the woods. Silence. The sun had sunk, a dull red ball, and the dusk was falling swiftly. The aspens below his window quivered slightly, throwing their white leaves upwards as though in pain. The stately pines that he loved, mute, solemn, changeless, filled the air with balsam, but they gave no answer to his problem. It was difficult to believe that, there, in the restless souls of men war could rage. And yet...._ _He peered out more intently. Beyond the pine forest, a murky cloud was rising. A storm? Hardly. For the sun had set in a clear sky. But there was a cloud surely, growing in darkness and intensity. He could see it more clearly now, billowing upward in grim portent._ _The Grand Duke started and then stared again. The cloud was of smoke. Through the woods, tiny lights were sparkling, picked out with ominous brilliancy against the velvet dusk. Peter Nicholaevitch leaned far out of the window, straining his ears to listen. And now he seemed to hear the crackle of flames, the distant sound of hoarse voices, shouting and singing._ _And while he still listened, aware that a great crisis had come into his life, there was a commotion just below him, the sound of voices close at hand and he saw a man come running from the woods, approaching the gateway of the Castle._ _He recognized him by the gray beard and thickset figure. It was Boris Rylov, the Huntsman, and as he ran he shouted to some one in the courtyard below. The Grand Duke made out the words:_ _"They're burning the Hunting Lodge--where is the Master----?"_ _Peter Nicholaevitch waited at the window no longer, but ran out of the room and down the flight of stairs into the great hall below. For he knew what had happened now. The Red Terror had come to Zukovo._ _He went out to the garden terrace, crossing quickly to the courtyard where he met the frightened group of servants that had assembled._ _Boris, the Huntsman, much out of breath was waving his arms excitedly toward the cloud of smoke rising above the pine trees, now tinged a dirty orange color from beneath._ _"They came from all directions, Master," he gasped, "like the black flies upon a dead horse--hundreds--thousands of them from the village and all the country round. I talked with the first that came, Anton Lensky, Gleb Saltykov, Michael Kuprin and Conrad Grabar----"_ _"Conrad----!" gasped the Grand Duke._ _"Yes, Highness," muttered Boris, his head bowed, "Conrad Grabar. They tried to restrain me. Michael Kuprin I struck upon the head with a stick--and then I fled--to warn your Highness--that they mean to come hither."_ _The face of the Grand Duke, a trifle pale under its tan, was set in stern lines, but there was no fear in his manner as he quickly questioned, his eyes eagerly scrutinizing the frightened men and women about him while he spoke to them with cool decision._ _"Thanks, Friend Rylov--you have done me a service I shall not forget." Then to the others, "If there are any of you who fear to remain with me, you may go. I cannot believe that they will come to Zukovo Castle, but we will close the gate to the courtyard at once. I will talk with them from the terrace wall."_ _"Master! Highness!" broke in the Huntsman violently, "you do not understand. You cannot stay here. They are mad. They will kill you. It is for that they come----"_ _"Nevertheless--I mean to stay----"_ _"It is death----"_ _"Go thou, then, and Vasili, and Ivan. For before they burn Zukovo, I mean to talk with them----"_ _"It is madness----!"_ _"Come, Highness," broke in Leo Garshin, the head-groom, eagerly, "I will put the saddle upon Vera, and you can go out of the iron gate from the stable-yard into the forest. Nothing can catch you and you can reach the river----"_ _"No, Leo----" put in the Grand Duke kindly. "I shall stay."_ _The servants glanced at one another, appalled at the Master's attitude. Some of them, had already disappeared into the Castle but others, less timorous, had already rushed to close the courtyard gate._ _"You say they are many, Friend Rylov?" he asked again._ _"As the hairs of your head, Master--from Ivanovna, Jaroslav--everywhere--and women, Highness, more terrible than the men----"_ _"And the leaders----?"_ _"Dmitri Sidorov of the Zemstvo and Michael Kositzin and Anton Lensky. See, yonder! Where the road turns from the clearing--they come!"_ _The keen eyes of Boris saw further through the forest than those of most men but in a moment those of the Grand Duke Peter confirmed him. Figures were moving in the twilight, along the roads and bypaths._ _To Peter Nicholaevitch they seemed like a great river which had flooded over its banks seeking new levels. Behind them the flames from the wooden hunting lodge roared upward painting a lurid sky. He saw that the flood came rapidly, and above the roar of the flames came the sound of voices singing the Russian version of the "Marseillaise." The Grand Duke stood at the terrace wall watching their approach. He knew that if they meant to attack the Castle the gate could not hold long, but he had hope that he might still be able to prevail upon them to listen to him. In a moment they saw him and began running forward toward the courtyard gate. He recognized individuals now--Anton Lensky, Michael Kuprin, with his head tied in a dirty handkerchief--and Conrad Grabar. The defection of his old instructor in wood-lore disturbed him. Conrad must have known what was to happen and he had said nothing. If Conrad had turned against him, what hope had he of prevailing against the others?_ _The singing died away and in its place, shouts and cries burst forth in a bedlam. "Open the gate!" "Let us in!"_ _The Grand Duke had heard that note in men's voices in the Carpathian passes, and he knew what it meant, but while his gaze sought out the fat figure of Michael Kositzin who was the leader of the uprising, he held up his hand for silence._ _There was a roar of voices._ _"Peter Nicholaevitch wishes to speak."_ _"It is our turn to speak now."_ "Nasha pora prishlà," (_our time has come_). _"Let the little master speak."_ _"We know no little masters here!"_ _"No, nor old ones!"_ "Smiert Bourjouiam" (_Death to the bourgeoisie_). _But as the young Grand Duke began to speak the voices of the most rabid of the peasants were hushed for a moment by the others._ _"My friends and my children" he began, "one word before you do something that you will forever regret. I am your friend. I am young--of the new generation. I have kept abreast of the new thought of the time and I believe in the New Life that is for you and for us all. I have proved it to you by bringing the New Life to Zukovo by peaceful means, by friendliness and brotherhood while other parts of Russia near by are in agony and darkness." (Cries of "That is true.") "It was in my heart that I had brought the Revolution to Zukovo, a Revolution against the old order of things which can be no more, implanting in you the strong seeds of Peace and Brotherhood which would kill out the ugly weeds of violence and enmity."_ _Here a hoarse voice rang out: "Fire--only fire can clean." Then the reply of a woman, "Yes,_ Tovaristchi, _it is the only way."_ _Peter Nicholaevitch tried to seek out the speakers with his gaze. One of them was Michael Kuprin whom when a child the Grand Duke had seen flogged in this very courtyard._ _"There are sins of the past," he went on, raising his voice against the low murmur of the mob, "many sins against you, but one sin does not wash out another. Murder, rapine, vengeance will never bring peace to Zukovo. What you do to-day will be visited on you to-morrow. I pray that you will listen to me. I have fought for you and with you--with Gleb Saltykov and Anton Lensky, against the return of Absolutism in Russia. The old order of things is gone. Do not stain the new with crime in Zukovo. I beseech you to disperse--return to your homes and I will come to you to-morrow and if there are wrongs I will set them right. You have believed in me in the past. Believe in me now and all may yet be well in Zukovo. Go, my friends, before it is too late----"_ _The crowd wavered, murmuring. But just then a shot rang out and the cap of the Grand Duke twitched around on his head._ _A roar went up from near the gate,_ "Nasha pora prishlà! _Break in the gate!" cried the voices and there were those of women among them shouting_ "Tovaristchi! _Forward!"_ _Over the heads of those in the front ranks, Peter Nicholaevitch saw some men bringing from the forest the heavy trunk of a felled pine tree. They meant to break down the gate. He knew that he had failed but still he stood upright facing them. Another shot, the bullet this time grazing his left arm. The sting of it angered him._ _"Cowards!" he yelled, shaking his fist at them. "Cowards!"_ _A volley followed but no other bullets struck him. Behind him in the Castle doorway he heard the voice of Boris Rylov, calling to him hoarsely._ _"Come, Master. For the love of God! There is yet time."_ _There was a crash of the heavy timbers at the gate._ _"Come, Master----"_ _With a shrug Peter Nicholaevitch turned and walked across the terrace toward the Castle._ "Bolvany!" _he muttered. "I've finished with them."_ _Boris and Vasili stood just within the door, pleading with him to hurry, and together they made their way through the deserted kitchens and over past the vegetable gardens to the stables, where Leo Garshin awaited them, the saddles on several horses. Behind them they could now hear the triumphant cries as the courtyard gate crashed in._ _"Hurry, Master!" cried Garshin eagerly._ _"Where are the others?" asked the Grand Duke._ _"Gone, Highness. They have fled."_ _Boris Rylov was peering out past an iron door into the forest._ _"There is no one there?" asked Garshin._ _"Not yet. They have forgotten."_ _"Come then, Highness."_ _But the Grand Duke saw that the aged Vasili was mounted first and then they rode out of the iron gate into a path which led directly into the forest. It was not until they were well clear of the buildings that a shout at one side announced that their mode of escape had been discovered. Men came running, firing pistols as they ran. Boris Rylov, bringing up the rear, reined in his horse and turning emptied a revolver at the nearest of their pursuers. One man fell and the others halted._ _Until they found the other horses in the stables pursuit was fruitless._ _Peter Nicholaevitch rode at the head of the little cavalcade, down the familiar aisles of the forest, his head bowed, a deep frown on his brows. It was Vasili who first noticed the blood dripping from his finger ends._ _"Master," he gasped, "you are wounded."_ _"It is nothing," said the Grand Duke._ _But Vasili bound the arm up with a handkerchief while Leo Garshin and Boris Rylov watched the path down which they had come. They could hear the crackling of the flames at the Hunting Lodge to the southward and the cries of the mob at the Castle, but there was no sign of pursuit. Perhaps they were satisfied to appease their madness with pillage and fire. Half an hour later Boris pointed backward. A new glow had risen, a redder, deeper glow._ _"The Castle, Master----" wailed Vasili._ _Peter Nicholaevitch drew rein at a cross-path, watched for a moment and then turned to his companions, for he had reached a decision._ _"My good friends," he said gently, "our ways part here."_ _"Master! Highness!"_ _But he was resolute._ _"I am going on alone. I will not involve you further in my misfortunes. You can do nothing for me--nor I anything for you except this. Vasili knows. In the vault below the wine-cellar, hidden away, are some objects of value. They will not find them. When they go away you will return. The visit will repay you. Divide what is there into equal parts--silver, plate and gold. As for me--forget me. Farewell!"_ _They saw that he meant what he said. He offered these few faithful servitors his hand and they kissed his fingers--a last act of fealty and devotion and in a moment they stood listening to the diminishing hoof-beats of Vera as the young master went out of their lives._ _"May God preserve him," muttered Vasili._ _"Amen," said Boris Rylov and Leo Garshin._ CHAPTER I INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS The British refugee ship _Phrygia_ was about to sail for Constantinople where her unfortunate passengers were to be transferred to other vessels sailing for Liverpool and New York. After some difficulties the refugee made his way aboard her and announced his identity to the captain. If he had expected to be received with the honor due to one of his rank and station he was quickly undeceived, for Captain Blashford, a man of rough manners, concealing a gentle heart, looked him over critically, examined his credentials (letters he had happened to have about him), and then smiled grimly. "We've got room for one more--and that's about all." "I have no money----" began the refugee. "Oh, that's all right," shrugged the Captain, "you're not the only one. We've a cargo of twenty princes, thirty-two princesses, eighteen generals and enough counts and countesses to set up a new nation somewhere. Your 'Ighness is the only Duke that has reached us up to the present speakin' and if there are any others, they'll 'ave to be brisk for we're sailin' in twenty minutes." The matter-of-fact tones with which the unemotional Britisher made this announcement restored the lost sense of humor of the Russian refugee, and he broke into a grim laugh. "An embarrassment of riches," remarked the Grand Duke. "Riches," grunted the Captain, "in a manner of speakin', yes. Money is not so plentiful. But jools! Good God! There must be half a ton of diamonds, rubies and emeralds aboard. All they're got left most of 'em, but complaints and narvousness. Give me a cargo of wheat and I'm your man," growled the Captain. "It stays put and doesn't complain," and then turning to Peter--"Ye're not expectin' any r'yal suite aboard the _Phrygia_, are ye?" "No. A hammock for'rad will be good enough for me." "That's the way I like to 'ear a man talk. Good God! As man to man, I arsk you,--with Counts throwin' cigarette butts around an' princesses cryin' all over my clean white decks an' all, what's a self-respectin' skipper to do? But I 'ave my orders to fetch the odd lot to Constantinople an' fetch 'em I will. Oh! They're odd--all right. Go below, sir, an' 'ave a look at 'em." But Peter Nicholaevitch shook his head. He had been doing a deal of quiet thinking in those starry nights upon the Dnieper, and he had worked out his problem alone. "No, thanks," he said quietly, "if you don't mind, I think I'd rather preserve my incognito." "Incognito, is it? Oh, very well, suit yourself. And what will I be callin' your Highness?" "Peter Nichols," said the Grand Duke with a smile, "it's as good as any other." "Right you are, Peter Nichols. Lay for'rad and tell the bos'n to show you up to my cabin." So Peter Nichols went forward, avoiding the cargo aft, until within a day's run of the Bosphorus when he found himself accosted by no less a person than Prince Galitzin who had strolled out to get the morning air. He tried to avoid the man but Galitzin planted himself firmly in his path, scrutinizing him eagerly. "You too, Highness!" he said with an accent of grieved surprise. The Grand Duke regarded him in a moment of silence. "It must be evident to you, Prince Galitzin, that I have some object in remaining unknown." "But, Your Highness, such a thing is unnecessary. Are we not all dedicated to the same misfortunes? Misery loves company." "You mean that it makes you less miserable to discover that I share your fate?" "Not precisely that. It is merely that if one holding your liberal views cannot escape the holocaust that has suddenly fallen there is little hope for the rest of us." "No," said the Grand Duke shortly. "There is no hope, none at all, for us or for Russia." "Where are you going?" "To America." "But, your Highness, that is impossible. We shall all have asylum in England until conditions change. You should go there with us. It will lend influence to our mission." "No." "Why?" "I am leaving Russia for the present. She is outcast. For, not content with betraying others, she has betrayed herself." "But what are you going to do?" Peter Nicholaevitch smiled up at the sky and the fussy, fat, bejeweled sycophant before him listened to him in amazement. "Prince Galitzin," said the Grand Duke amusedly, "I am going to do that which may bring the blush of shame to your brow or the sneer of pity to your lips. I am going to fulfill the destiny provided for every man with a pair of strong hands, and a willing spirit--I am going to work." The Prince stepped back a pace, his watery eyes snapping in incomprehension. "But your higher destiny--your great heritage as a Prince of the Royal blood of Holy Russia." "There is no Holy Russia, my friend, until she is born again. Russia is worse than traitor, worse than liar, worse than murderer and thief. She is a fool." "All will come right in time. We go to England to wait." "I have other plans." "Then you will not join us? Princess Anastasie, my daughter, is here. General Seminoff----" "It is useless. I have made up my mind. Leave me, if you please." Prince Galitzin disappeared quickly below to spread the information of his discovery among the disconsolate refugees and it was not long before it was known from one end of the _Phrygia_ to the other that the fellow who called himself Peter Nichols was none other than the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, a cousin to his late Majesty Nicholas and a Prince of the Royal blood. Peter Nichols sought the Captain in his cabin, putting the whole case before him. "H-m," chuckled the Captain, "Found ye out, did they? There's only a few of you left, that's why. Better stay 'ere in my cabin until we reach Constantinople. I'd be honored, 'Ighness, to say nothin' of savin' you a bit of bother." "You're very kind." "Not at all. Make yourself at 'ome. There's cigarettes on the locker and a nip of the Scotch to keep the chill out. Here's a light. You've been worryin' me some, 'Ighness. Fact is I didn't know just how big a bug you were until to-day when I arsked some questions. You'll forgive me, 'Ighness?" "Peter Nichols," corrected the Grand Duke. "No," insisted the Captain, "we'll give you yer title while we can. You know we British have a bit of a taste for r'yalty when we know it's the real thing. I don't take much stock in most of my cargo aft. And beggin' yer 'Ighness's pardon I never took much stock in Russia since she lay down on the job and left the Allies in the lurch----" "Captain Blashford," said the Grand Duke quietly. "You can't hurt my feelings." "But I do like you, 'Ighness, and I want to do all that I can to 'elp you when we get to anchor." "Thanks." "I take it that you don't want anybody ashore to know who ye are?" "Exactly. Most of these refugees are going to England. I have reasons for not wishing to go with them." "Where then do you propose to go?" "To the United States," said the Grand Duke eagerly. "Without money?" "I'd have no money if I went to England unless I subsisted on the charity of my friends. My branch of the family is not rich. The war has made us poorer. Such securities as I have are in a vault in Kiev. It would be suicide for me to attempt to reclaim them now. I'm going to try to make my own way." "Impossible!" The Grand Duke laughed at the Englishman's expression. "Why?" "Yer 'ands, 'Ighness." The Grand Duke shrugged and grinned. "I'll risk it. I'm not without resources. Will you help me to a ship sailing for America?" "Yes--but----" "Oh, I'll work my passage over--if nobody bothers me." "By George! I like your spirit. Give me your 'and, sir. I'll do what I can. If the _Bermudian_ hasn't sailed from the Horn yet, I think I can manage it for ye." "And keep me clear of the rest of your passengers?" added His Highness. "Righto. They'll go on the _Semaphore_. You stay right 'ere and mum's the word." And Captain Blashford went out on deck leaving Peter Nichols to his cigarette and his meditations. Many times had the Grand Duke Peter given thanks that the blood of his mother flowed strongly in his veins. He was more British than Russian and he could remember things that had happened since he had grown to adolescence which had made the half of him that was English revolt against the Russian system. It was perhaps his musical education rather than his University training or his travels in England and France that had turned him to the _Intelligentsia_. In the vast republic of art and letters he had imbibed the philosophy that was to threaten the very existence of his own clan. The spread of the revolution had not dismayed him, for he believed that in time the pendulum would swing back and bring a constitutional government to Russia. But in the weeks of struggle, privation, and passion a new Peter Nicholaevitch was born. The failure of his plans in the sudden flood of anarchy which had swept over Zukovo, the treachery of those he had thought faithful and the attempt upon his life had changed his viewpoint. It takes a truly noble spirit to wish to kiss the finger that has pulled the trigger of a revolver, the bullet from which has gone through one's hat. From disappointment and dismay Peter Nicholaevitch had turned to anger. They hadn't played the game with him. It wasn't cricket. His resolution to sail for the United States was decided. To throw himself, an object of charity, upon the mercies of the Earl of Shetland, his mother's cousin, was not to be thought of. To his peasants he had preached the gospel of labor, humility and peace, in that state of life to which they had been called. He had tried to exemplify it to them. He could do no less now, to himself. By teaching himself, he could perhaps fit himself to teach them. In England it would perhaps be difficult to remain incognito, and he had a pride in wishing to succeed alone and unaided. Only the United States, whose form of government more nearly approached the ideal he had for Russia, could offer him the opportunities to discover whether or not a prince could not also be a man. To the Princess Anastasie he gave little thought. That their common exile and the chance encounter under such circumstances had aroused no return of an entente toward what had once been a half-sentimental attachment convinced him of how little it had meant to him. There were no royal prohibitions upon him now. To marry the Princess Anastasie and settle in London, living upon the proceeds of her wealthy father's American and British securities, was of course the easiest solution of his difficulties. A life of ease, music, good sportsmanship, the comfort that only England knows.... She was comely too--blond, petite, and smoked her cigarette very prettily. Their marriage had once been discussed. She wanted it still, perhaps. Something of all this may have been somewhere in the back of Prince Galitzin's ambitious mind. The one course would be so easy, the other---- Peter Nicholaevitch rose and carefully flicked his cigarette through the open port. No. One does not pass twice through such moments of struggle and self-communion as he had had in those long nights of his escape along the Dnieper. He had chosen. Peter Nichols! The name amused him. If Captain Blashford was a man of his word to-night would be the end of the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, and the Princess Anastasie might find some more ardent suitor to her grace and beauty. She did not seek him out. Perhaps the hint to Galitzin had been sufficient and the Grand Duke from his hiding place saw her pretty figure set ashore among the miscellany of martyred "r'yalty." He turned away from his port-hole with a catch of his breath as the last vestige of his old life passed from sight. And then quietly took up a fresh cigarette and awaited the Captain. The details were easily arranged. Blashford was a man of resource and at night returned from a visit to the Captain of the _Bermudian_ with word that all was well. He had been obliged to relate the facts but Captain Armitage could keep a secret and promised the refugee a job under his steward who was short-handed. And so the next morning, after shaving and dressing himself in borrowed clothes, Peter Nichols shook Captain Blashford warmly by the hand and went aboard his new ship. Peter Nichols' new job was that of a waiter at the tables in the dining saloon. He was a very good waiter, supplying, from the wealth of a Continental experience, the deficiencies of other waiters he had known. He wore a black shell jacket and a white shirt front which remained innocent of gravy spots. The food was not very good nor very plentiful, but he served it with an air of such importance that it gained flavor and substance by the reflection of his deference. There were English officers bound for Malta, Frenchmen for Marseilles and Americans of the Red Cross without number bound for New York. Girls, too, clear-eyed, bronzed and hearty, who talked war and politics beneath his very nose, challenging his own theories. They noticed him too and whispered among themselves, but true to his ambition to do every task at the best of his bent, he preserved an immobile countenance and pocketed his fees, which would be useful ere long, with the grateful appreciation of one to whom shillings and franc pieces come as the gifts of God. Many were the attempts to draw him into a conversation, but where the queries could not be answered by a laconic "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," this paragon of waiters maintained a smiling silence. "I'm sure he's a prince or something," he heard one young girl of a hospital unit say to a young medico of the outfit. "Did you ever see such a nose and brows in your life? And his hands----! You can never mistake hands. I would swear those hands had never done menial work for a thousand years." All of which was quite true, but it made the waiter Peter uncomfortably careful. There were no women in the kitchen, but there was an amatory stewardess, fat and forty, upon whom the factitious technique of the saloon fell with singular insipidity. He fled from her. Peter, the waiter, was already a good democrat but he was not ready to spread his philosophy out so thin. He slept forward, messed abaft the galley, enriched his vocabulary and broadened his point of view. There is no leveler like a ship's fo'c'sle, no better school of philosophy than that of men upon their "beam ends." There were many such--Poles, Slovaks, Roumanians, an Armenian or two, refugees, adventurers from America, old, young, dissolute, making a necessity of virtue under that successful oligarchy, the ship's bridge. In the Americans Peter was interested with an Englishman's point of view. He had much to learn, and he invented a tale of his fortunes which let him into their confidences, especially into that of Jim Coast, waiter like himself, whose bunk adjoined his own. Jim Coast was a citizen of the world, inured to privation under many flags. He had been born in New Jersey, U. S. A., of decent people, had worked in the cranberry bogs, farmed in Pennsylvania, "punched" cattle in Wyoming, "prospected" in the Southwest, looted ranches in Mexico, fought against Diaz and again with the insurgents in Venezuela, worked on cattle-ships and so, by easy stages, had drifted across the breadth of Europe living by his wits at the expense of the credulous and the unwary. And now, for the first time in many years, he was going home--though just what that meant he did not know. He had missed great fortune twice--"by the skin of his teeth," as he picturesquely described it, once in a mine in Arizona and again in a land-deal in the Argentine. There were reasons why he hadn't dared to return to the United States before. He was a man with a grievance, but, however free in his confidences in other respects, gave the interested Peter no inkling as to what that grievance was. No more curious acquaintanceship could possibly be imagined, but privation, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, and, from tolerance and amusement, Pete, as the other called him, found himself yielding, without stint, to the fantastic spell of Jim Coast's multifarious attractions. He seemed to have no doubts as to the possibility of making a living in America and referred darkly to possible "coups" that would net a fortune. He was an agreeable villain, not above mischief to gain his ends, and Peter, who cherished an ideal, made sure that, once safe ashore, it would be best if they parted company. But he didn't tell Jim Coast so, for the conversational benefits he derived from that gentleman's acquaintance were a liberal education. We are admonished that they are blessed who just stand and wait, and Peter Nichols, three days out of New York harbor, found himself the possessor of forty dollars in tips from the voyage with sixty dollars coming to him as wages--not so bad for a first venture upon the high seas of industry. It was the first real money he had ever made in his life and he was proud of it, jingling it contentedly in his pockets and rubbing the bills luxuriously one against the other. But his plans required more than this, for he had read enough to know that in the United States one is often taken at one's own estimate, and that if he wasn't to find a job as a ditch-digger, he must make a good appearance. And so it was now time to make use of the one Grand Ducal possession remaining to him, a gold ring set with a gorgeous ruby that had once belonged to his father. This ring he had always worn and had removed from his finger at Ushan, in the fear that its magnificence might betray him. He had kept it carefully tied about his neck in a bag on a bit of string and had of course not even shown it to Jim Coast who might have deemed it an excuse to sever their strange friendship. Through the Head Steward he managed a message to Captain Armitage and was bidden to the officer's cabin, where he explained the object of his visit, exhibited his treasure and estimated its value. The Captain opened his eyes a bit wider as he gazed into the sanguine depths of the stone. "If I didn't know something of your history, Nichols," he said with a wink, "I might think you'd been looting the strong box of the Sultan of Turkey. Pigeon's blood and as big as my thumb nail! You want to sell it?" "I need capital." "What do you want for it?" "It's worth a thousand pounds of English money. Perhaps more, I don't know. I'll take what I can get." "I see. You're afraid to negotiate the sale ashore?" "Exactly. I'd be arrested." "And you don't want explanations. H-m--leave it with me over night. I'll see the Purser. He'll know." "Thanks." The Captain offered the waiter in the shell-jacket the hospitality of his cabin, but Peter Nichols thanked him gratefully and withdrew. The result of this arrangement was that the ruby ring changed owners. The Purser bought it for two thousand in cash. He knew a good thing when he saw it. But Peter Nichols was satisfied. CHAPTER II NEW YORK The Duke-errant had prepared himself for the first glimpse of the battlements of lower New York, but as the _Bermudian_ came up the bay that rosy spring afternoon, the western sun gilding the upper half of the castellated towers which rose from a sea of moving shadows, it seemed a dream city, the fortress of a fairy tale. His fingers tingled to express this frozen music, to relieve it from its spell of enchantment, and phrases of Debussy's "Cathédrale Engloutie" came welling up within him from almost forgotten depths. "_Parbleu!_ She's grown some, Pete, since I saw her last!" This from his grotesque companion who was not moved by concord of sweet sounds. "They've buried the Trinity clean out of sight." "The Trinity?" questioned Peter solemnly. "Bless your heart----" laughed Coast, "I'd say so----But I mean, the church----And that must be the Woolworth Building yonder. Where's yer St. Paul's and Kremlin now? Some village,--what?" "Gorgeous!" muttered Peter. "Hell of a thing to tackle single-handed, though, eh, boh?" Something of the same thought was passing through Peter's mind but he only smiled. "I'll find a job," he said slowly. "Waitin'!" sneered Coast. "Fine job that for a man with your learnin'. 'Hey, waiter! Some butter if you please,'" he satirized in mincing tones, "'this soup is cold--this beef is underdone. Oh, _cawn't_ you give me some service here!' I say, don't you hear 'em--people that never saw a servant in their own home town. Pretty occupation for an old war horse like me or a globe-trotter like you. No. None for me. I'll fry my fish in a bigger pan. _Allons!_ Pete. I like you. I'll like you more when you grow some older, but you've got a head above your ears that ain't all bone. I can use you. What d'ye say? We'll get ashore, some way, and then we'll show the U. S. A. a thing or two not written in the books." "We'll go ashore together, Jim. Then we'll see." "Righto! But I'll eat my hat if I can see you balancin' dishes in a Broadway Chop House." Peter couldn't see that either, but he didn't tell Jim Coast so. Their hour on deck had struck, for a final meal was to be served and they went below to finish their duties. That night they were paid off and discharged. The difficulties in the way of inspection and interrogation of Peter Nichols, the alien, were obviated by the simple expedient of his going ashore under cover of the darkness and not coming back to the ship--this at a hint from the sympathetic Armitage who gave the ex-waiter a handclasp and his money and wished him success. Midnight found Peter and Jim Coast on Broadway in the neighborhood of Forty-second Street with Peter blinking comfortably up at the electric signs and marveling at everything. The more Coast drank the deeper was his cynicism but Peter grew mellow. This was a wonderful new world he was exploring and with two thousand dollars safely tucked on the inside of his waistcoat, he was ready to defy the tooth of adversity. In the morning Peter Nichols came to a decision. And so over the coffee and eggs when Coast asked him what his plans were he told him he was going to look for a job. Coast looked at him through the smoke of his cigar and spoke at last. "I didn't think you'd be a quitter, Pete. The world owes us a livin'--you and me----Bah! It's easy if you'll use your headpiece. If the world won't give, I mean to take. The jobs are meant for little men." "What are you going to do?" "An enterprisin' man wouldn't ask such a question. Half the people in the world takes what the other half gives. You ought to know what half _I_ belong to." "I'm afraid I belong to the other half, Jim Coast," said Peter quietly. "_Sacré--!_" sneered the other, rising suddenly. "Where you goin' to wait, Pete? At the Ritz or the Commodore? In a month you'll be waitin' on _me_. It'll be _Mister_ Coast for you then, _mon garçon_, but you'll still be Pete." He shrugged and offered his hand. "Well, we won't quarrel but our ways split here." "I'm sorry, Jim. Good-by." He saw Coast slouch out into the street and disappear m the crowd moving toward Broadway. He waited for a while thinking deeply and then with a definite plan in his mind strolled forth. First he bought a second-hand suit case in Seventh Avenue, then found a store marked "Gentlemen's Outfitters" where he purchased ready-made clothing, a hat, shoes, underwear, linen and cravats, arraying himself with a sense of some satisfaction and packing in his suitcase what he couldn't wear, went forth, found a taxi and drove in state to a good hotel. * * * * * New York assimilates its immigrants with surprising rapidity. Through this narrow funnel they pour into the "melting pot," their racial characteristics already neutralized, their souls already inoculated with the spirit of individualism. Prepared as he was to accept with a good grace conditions as he found them, Peter Nichols was astonished at the ease with which he fitted into the niche that he had chosen. His room was on the eighteenth floor, to which and from which he was shot in an enameled lift operated by a Uhlan in a monkey-cap. He found that it required a rather nice adjustment of his muscles to spring forth at precisely the proper moment. There was a young lady who presided over the destinies of the particular shelf that he occupied in this enormous cupboard, a very pretty young lady, something between a French Duchess and a lady's maid. Her smile had a homelike quality though and it was worth risking the perilous catapulting up and down for the mere pleasure of handing her his room key. Having no valuables of course but his money which he carried in his pockets there was no danger from unprincipled persons had she been disposed to connive at dishonesty. His bedroom was small but neat and his bathroom was neat but small, tiled in white enamel, containing every device that the heart of a clean man could desire. He discovered that by dropping a quarter into various apertures he could secure almost anything he required from tooth paste to razor blades. There was a telephone beside his bed which rang at inconvenient moments and a Bible upon the side table proclaimed the religious fervor of this extraordinary people. A newspaper was sent in to him every morning whether he rang for it or not, and every time he did ring, a lesser Uhlan brought a thermos bottle containing iced water. This perplexed him for a time but he was too much ashamed of his ignorance to question. You see, he was already acquiring the first ingredient of the American character--omniscience, for he found that in New York no one ever admits that he doesn't know everything. But it was all very wonderful, pulsing with life, eloquent of achievement. He was in no haste. By living with some care, he found that the money from his ruby would last for several months. Meanwhile he was studying his situation and its possibilities. Summing up his own attainments he felt that he was qualified as a teacher of the piano or of the voice, as an instructor in languages, or if the worst came, as a waiter in a fashionable restaurant--perhaps even a head-waiter--which from the authority he observed in the demeanor of the lord of the hotel dining room seemed almost all the honor that a person in America might hope to gain. But, in order that no proper opportunity should slip by, he scanned the newspapers in the hope of finding something that he could do. As the weeks passed he made the discovery that he was being immensely entertained. He was all English now. It was not in the least difficult to make acquaintances. Almost everybody spoke to everybody without the slightest feeling of restraint. He learned the meaning of the latest American slang but found difficulty in applying it, rejoiced in the syncopation of the jazz, America's original contribution to the musical art, and by the end of a month thought himself thoroughly acclimated. But he still surprised inquiring glances male and female cast in his direction. There was something about his personality which, disguise it as he might under American-made garments and American-made manners, refused to be hidden. It was his charm added to his general good nature and adaptability which quickly made Peter Nichols some friends of the better sort. If he had been willing to drift downward he would have cast in his lot with Jim Coast. Instead, he followed decent inclinations and found himself at the end of six weeks a part of a group of young business men who took him home to dine with their wives and gave him the benefit of their friendly advice. To all of them he told the same story, that he was an Englishman who had worked in Russia with the Red Cross and that he had come to the United States to get a job. It was a likely story and most of them swallowed it. But one clever girl whom he met out at dinner rather startled him by the accuracy of her intuitions. "I have traveled a good deal, Mr. Nichols," she said quizzically, "but I've never yet met an Englishman like you." "It is difficult for me to tell whether I am to consider that as flattery or disapproval," said Peter calmly. "You talk like an Englishman, but you're entirely too much interested in everything to be true to type." "Ah, really----" "Englishmen are either bored or presumptuous. You're neither. And there's a tiny accent that I can't explain----" "Don't try----" "I must. We Americans believe in our impulses. My brother Dick says you're a man of mystery. I've solved it," she laughed, "I'm sure you're a Russian Grand Duke incognito." Peter laughed and tried bravado. "You are certainly all in the mustard," he blundered helplessly. And she looked at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. These associations were very pleasant, but, contrary to Peter's expectations, they didn't seem to be leading anywhere. The efforts that he made to find positions commensurate with his ambitions had ended in blind alleys. He was too well educated for some of them, not well enough educated for others. More than two months had passed. He had moved to a boarding house in a decent locality, but of the two thousands dollars with which he had entered New York there now remained to him less than two hundred. He was beginning to believe that he had played the game and lost and that within a very few weeks he would be obliged to hide himself from these excellent new acquaintances and go back to his old job. Then the tide of his fortune suddenly turned. Dick Sheldon, the brother of the girl who was "all in the mustard," aware of Peter's plight, had stumbled across the useful bit of information and brought it to Peter at the boarding house. "Didn't you tell me that you'd once had something to do with forestry in Russia?" he asked. Peter nodded. "I was once employed in the reafforestation of a large estate," he replied. "Then I've found your job," said Sheldon heartily, clapping Peter on the back. "A friend of Sheldon, Senior's, Jonathan K. McGuire, has a big place down in the wilderness of Jersey--thousands of acres and he wants a man to take charge--sort of forestry expert and general superintendent, money no object. I reckon you could cop out three hundred a month as a starter." "That looks good to me," said Peter, delighted that the argot fell so aptly from his lips. And then, "You're not spoofing, are you?" "Devil a spoof. It's straight goods, Nichols. Will you take it?" Peter had a vision of the greasy dishes he was to escape. "Will I?" he exclaimed delightedly. "Can I get it?" "Sure thing. McGuire is a millionaire, made a pot of money somewhere in the West--dabbles in the market. That's where Dad met him. Crusty old rascal. Daughter. Living down in Jersey now, alone with a lot of servants. Queer one. Maybe you'll like him--maybe not." Peter clasped his friend by the hands. "Moloch himself would look an angel of mercy to me now." "Do you think you can make good?" "Well, rather. Whom shall I see? And when?" "I can fix it up with Dad, I reckon. You'd better come down to the office and see him about twelve." Peter Sheldon, Senior, looked him over and asked him questions and the interview was quite satisfactory. "I'll tell you the truth, as far as I know it," said Sheldon, Senior (which was more than Peter Nichols had done). "Jonathan K. McGuire is a strange character--keeps his business to himself----. How much he's worth nobody knows but himself and the Treasury Department. Does a good deal of buying and selling through this office. A hard man in a deal but reasonable in other things. I've had his acquaintance for five years, lunched with him, dined with him--visited this place in Jersey, but I give you my word, Mr. Nichols, I've never yet got the prick of a pin beneath that man's skin. You may not like him. Few people do. But there's no harm in taking a try at this job." "I shall be delighted," said Nichols. "I don't know whether you will or not," broke in Sheldon, Senior, frankly. "Something's happened lately. About three weeks ago Jonathan K. McGuire came into this office hurriedly, shut the door behind him, locked it--and sank into a chair, puffing hard, his face the color of putty. He wouldn't answer any questions and put me off, though I'd have gone out of my way to help him. But after a while he looked out of the window, phoned for his car and went again, saying he was going down into Jersey." "He was sick, perhaps," ventured Peter. "It was something worse than that, Mr. Nichols. He looked as though he had seen a ghost or heard a banshee. Then this comes," continued the broker, taking up a letter from the desk. "Asks for a forester, a good strong man. You're strong, Mr. Nichols? Er--and courageous? You're not addicted to 'nerves'? You see I'm telling you all these things so that you'll go down to Black Rock with your eyes open. He also asks me to engage other men as private police or gamekeepers, who will act under your direction. Queer, isn't it? Rather spooky, I'd say, but if you're game, we'll close the bargain now. Three hundred a month to start with and found. Is that satisfactory?" "Perfectly," said Peter with a bow. "When do I begin?" "At once if you like. Salary begins now. Fifty in advance for expenses." "That's fair enough, Mr. Sheldon. If you will give me the directions, I will go to-day." "To-morrow will be time enough." Sheldon, Senior, had turned to his desk and was writing upon a slip of paper. This he handed to Peter with a check. "That will show you how to get there," he said as he rose, brusquely. "Glad to have met you. Good-day." And Peter felt himself hand-shaken and pushed at the same time, reaching the outer office, mentally out of breath from the sudden, swift movement of his fortunes. Sheldon, Senior, had not meant to be abrupt. He was merely a business man relaxing for a moment to do a service for a friend. When Peter Nichols awoke to his obligations he sought out Sheldon, Junior, and thanked him with a sense of real gratitude and Sheldon, Junior, gave him a warm handclasp and Godspeed. * * * * * The Pennsylvania Station caused the new Superintendent of Jonathan K. McGuire to blink and gasp. He paused, suit case in hand, at the top of the double flight of stairs to survey the splendid proportions of the waiting room where the crowds seemed lost in its great spaces. In Europe such a building would be a cathedral. In America it was a railway station. And the thought was made more definite by the Gregorian chant of the train announcer which sounded aloft, its tones seeking concord among their own echoes. This was the portal to the new life in which Peter was to work out his own salvation and the splendor of the immediate prospect uplifted him with a sense of his personal importance in the new scheme of things of which this was a part. He hadn't the slightest doubt that he would be able to succeed in the work for which he had been recommended, for apart from his music--which had taken so many of his hours--there was nothing that he knew more about or loved better than the trees. He had provided himself the afternoon before with two books by American authorities and other books and monographs were to be forwarded to his new address. As he descended the stairs and reached the main floor of the station, his glance caught the gaze of a man staring at him intently. The man was slender and dark, dressed decently enough in a gray suit and soft hat and wore a small black mustache. All of these facts Peter took note of in the one glance, arrested by the strange stare of the other, which lingered while Peter glanced away and went on. Peter, who had an excellent memory for faces, was sure that he had never seen the man before, but after he had taken a few steps, it occurred to him that in the stranger's eyes he had noted the startled distention of surprise and recognition. And so he stopped and turned, but as he did so the fellow dropped his gaze suddenly, and turned and walked away. The incident was curious and rather interesting. If Peter had had more time he would have sought out the fellow and asked him why he was staring at him, but there were only a few moments to spare and he made his way out to the concourse where he found his gate and descended to his train. Here he ensconced himself comfortably in the smoking car, and was presently shot under the Hudson River (as he afterwards discovered) and out into the sunshine of the flats of New Jersey. He rolled smoothly along through the manufacturing and agricultural districts, his keenly critical glances neglecting nothing of the waste and abundance on all sides. He saw, too, the unlovely evidences of poverty on the outskirts of the cities, which brought to his mind other communities in a far country whose physical evidences of prosperity were no worse, if no better, than these. Then there came a catch in his throat and a gasp which left him staring but seeing nothing. The feeling was not nostalgia, for that far country was no home for him now. At last he found himself muttering to himself in English, "My home--my home is here." After a while the mood of depression, recurrent moments of which had come to him in New York with diminishing frequency, passed into one of contemplation, of calm, like those which had followed his nights of passion on the Dnieper, and at last he closed his eyes and dozed. Visions of courts and camps passed through his mind--of brilliant uniforms and jeweled decorations; of spacious polished halls, resplendent with ornate mirrors and crystal pendant chandeliers; of diamond coronets, of silks and satins and powdered flunkies. And then other visions of gray figures crouched in the mud; of rain coming out of the dark and of ominous lights over the profile of low hills; of shrieks; of shells and cries of terror; of his cousin, a tall, bearded man on a horse in a ravine waving an imperious arm; of confusion and moving thousands, the creak of sanitars, the groans of men calling upon mothers they would never see. And then with a leap backward over the years, the vision of a small man huddled against the wall of a courtyard being knouted until red stains appeared on his gray blouse and then mingled faintly in the mist and the rain until the small man sank to the full length of his imprisoned arms like one crucified.... Peter Nichols straightened and passed a hand across his damp forehead. Through the perspective of this modern civilization what had been passing before his vision seemed very vague, very distant, but he knew that it was not a dream.... All about him was life, progress, industry, hope--a nation in the making, proud of her brief history which had been built around an ideal. If he could bring this same ideal back to Russia! In his heart he thanked God for America--imperfect though she was, and made a vow that in the task he had set for himself he should not be found wanting. Twice he changed trains, the second time at a small junction amid an ugliness of clay-pits and brickyards and dust and heat. There were perhaps twenty people on the platform. He walked the length of the station and as he did so a man in a gray suit disappeared around the corner of the building. But Peter Nichols did not see him, and in a moment, seated in his new train in a wooden car which reminded him of some of the ancient rolling stock of the St. Petersburg and Moscow Railroad, he was taken haltingly and noisily along the last stage of his journey. But he was aware of the familiar odor of the pine balsam in his nostrils, and as he rolled through dark coverts the scent of the growing things in the hidden places in the coolth and damp of the sandy loam. He saw, too, tea-colored streams idling among the sedges and charred wildernesses of trees appealing mutely with their blackened stumps like wounded creatures in pain, a bit of war-torn Galicia in the midst of peace. Miles and miles of dead forest land, forgotten and uncared for. There was need here for his services. With a wheeze of steam and a loud crackling of woodwork and creaking of brakes the train came to a stop and the conductor shouted the name of the station. Rather stiffly the traveler descended with his bag and stood upon the small platform looking about him curiously. The baggage man tossed out a bundle of newspapers and a pouch of mail and the train moved off. Apparently Peter Nichols was the only passenger with Pickerel River as a destination. And as the panting train went around a curve, at last disappearing, it seemed fairly reasonable to Peter Nichols that no one with the slightest chance of stopping off anywhere else would wish to get off here. The station was small, of but one room and a tiny office containing, as he could see, a telegraph instrument, a broken chair with a leather cushion, a shelf and a rack containing a few soiled slips of paper, but the office had no occupant and the door was locked. This perhaps explained the absence of the automobile which Mr. Sheldon had informed him would meet him in obedience to his telegram announcing the hour of his arrival. Neither within the building nor without was there any person or animate thing in sight, except some small birds fluttering and quarreling along the telegraph wires. There was but one road, a sandy one, wearing marks of travel, which emerged from the scrub oak and pine and definitely concluded at the railroad track. This, then, was his direction, and after reassuring himself that there was no other means of egress, he took up his black suitcase and set forth into the wood, aware of a sense of beckoning adventure. The road wound in and out, up and down, over what at one time must have been the floor of the ocean, which could not be far distant. Had it not been for the weight of his bag Peter would have enjoyed the experience of this complete isolation, the fragrant silences broken only by the whisper of the leaves and the scurrying of tiny wild things among the dead tree branches. But he had no means of knowing how far he would have to travel or whether, indeed, there had not been some mistake on Sheldon, Senior's, part or his own. But the directions had been quite clear and the road must of course lead somewhere--to some village or settlement at least where he could get a lodging for the night. And so he trudged on through the woods which already seemed to be partaking of some of the mystery which surrounded the person of Jonathan K. McGuire. The whole incident had been unusual and the more interesting because of the strange character of his employer and the evident fear he had of some latent evil which threatened him. But Peter Nichols had accepted his commission with a sense of profound relief at escaping the other fate that awaited him, with scarcely a thought of the dangers which his acceptance might entail. He was not easily frightened and had welcomed the new adventure, dismissing the fears of Jonathan K. McGuire as imaginary, the emanations of age or an uneasy conscience. But as he went on, his bag became heavier and the perspiration poured down his face, so reaching a cross-path that seemed to show signs of recent travel he put the suitcase down and sat on it while he wiped his brow. The shadows were growing longer. He was beginning to believe that there was no such place as Black Rock, no such person as Jonathan K. McGuire and that Sheldon, Senior, and Sheldon, Junior, were engaged in a conspiracy against his peace of mind, when above the now familiar whisperings of the forest he heard a new sound. Faintly it came at first as though from a great distance, mingling with the murmur of the sighing wind in the pine trees, a voice singing. It seemed a child's voice--delicate, clear, true, as care-free as the note of a bird--unleashing its joy to the heavens. Peter Nichols started up, listening more intently. The sounds were coming nearer but he couldn't tell from which direction, for every leaf seemed to be taking up the lovely melody which he could hear quite clearly now. It was an air with which he was unfamiliar, but he knew only that it was elemental in its simplicity and under these circumstances startlingly welcome. He waited another long moment, listening, found the direction from which the voice was coming, and presently noted the swaying of branches and the crackling of dry twigs in the path near by, from which, in a moment, a strange figure emerged. At first he thought it was a boy, for it wore a pair of blue denim overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat, from beneath which the birdlike notes were still emitted, but as the figure paused at the sight of him, the song suddenly ceased--he saw a tumbled mass of tawny hair and a pair of startled blue eyes staring at him. "Hello," said the figure, after a moment, recovering its voice. "Good-afternoon," said Peter Nichols, bowing from the waist in the most approved Continental manner. You see he, too, was a little startled by the apparition, which proclaimed itself beneath its strange garments in unmistakable terms to be both feminine and lovely. CHAPTER III THE OVERALL GIRL They stood for a long moment regarding each other, both in curiosity; Peter because of the contrariety of the girl's face and garments, the girl because of Peter's bow, which was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened in Burlington County. After a pause, a smile which seemed to have been hovering uncertainly around the corners of her lips broke into a frank grin, disclosing dimples and a row of white teeth, the front ones not quite together. "Could you tell me," asked Peter very politely as he found his voice, "if this road leads to Black Rock?" She was still scrutinizing him, her head, birdlike, upon one side. "That depends on which way you're walkin'," she said. She dropped her "g" with careless ease, but then Peter had noticed that many Americans and English people, some very nice ones, did that. Peter glanced at the girl and then down the road in both directions. "Oh, yes, of course," he said, not sure whether she was smiling at or with him. "I came from a station called Pickerel River and I wish to go to Black Rock." "You're _sure_ you want to go there?" "Oh, yes." "I guess that's because you've never been to Black Rock, Mister." "No, I haven't." The girl picked a shrub and nibbled at it daintily. "You'd better turn and go right back." Her sentence finished in a shrug. "What's the matter with Black Rock?" he asked curiously. "It's just the little end of nothin'. That's all," she finished decisively. The quaint expression interested him. "I must get there, nevertheless," he said; "is it far from here?" "Depends on what you call far. Mile or so. Didn't the 'Lizzie' meet the six-thirty?" Peter stared at her vacuously, for this was Greek. "The 'Lizzie'?" "The tin 'Lizzie'--Jim Hagerman's bus--carries the mail and papers. Sometimes he gives me a lift about here." "No. There was no conveyance of any sort and I really expected one. I wish to get to Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire's." "Oh!" The girl had been examining Peter furtively, as though trying vainly to place him definitely in her mental collection of human bipeds. Now she stared at him with interest. "Oh, you're goin' to McGuire's!" Peter nodded. "If I can ever find the way." "You're one of the new detectives?" "Detective!" Peter laughed. "No. Not that I'm aware. I'm the new superintendent and forester." "Oh!" The girl was visibly impressed, but a tiny frown puckered her brow. "What's a forester?" she asked. "A fellow who looks after the forests." "The forests don't need any lookin' after out here in the barrens. They just grow." "I'm going to teach them to grow better." The girl looked at him for a long moment of suspicion. She had taken off her hat and the ruddy sunlight behind her made a golden halo all about her head. Her hands he had noted were small, the fingers slender. Her nose was well shaped, her nostrils wide, the angle of her jaw firmly modeled and her slender figure beneath the absurd garments revealed both strength and grace. But he did not dare to stare at her too hard or to question her as to her garments. For all that Peter knew it might be the custom of Burlington County for women to wear blue denim trousers. And her next question took him off his guard. "You city folk don't think much of yourselves, do you?" "I don't exactly understand what you mean," said Peter politely, marking the satirical note. "To think you can make these trees grow better!" she sniffed. "Oh, I'm just going to help them to help themselves." "That's God's job, Master." Peter smiled. She wouldn't have understood, he thought, so what was the use of explaining. There must have been a superior quality in Peter's smile, for the girl put on her hat and came down into the road. "I'm goin' to Black Rock," she said stiffly, "follow me." And she went off with a quick stride down the road. Peter Nichols took up his bag and started, with difficulty getting to a place beside her. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd much rather walk with you than behind you." She shrugged a shoulder at him. "Suit yourself," she said. In this position, Peter made the discovery that her profile was quite as interesting as her full face, but she no longer smiled. Her reference to the Deity entirely eliminated Peter and the profession of forestry from the pale of useful things. He was sorry that she no longer smiled because he had decided to make friends at Black Rock and he didn't want to make a bad beginning. "I hope you don't mind," said Peter at last, "if I tell you that you have one of the loveliest voices that I have ever heard." He marked with pleasure the sudden flush of color that ran up under her delicately freckled tan. Her lips parted and she turned to him hesitating. "You--you heard me!" "I did. It was like the voice of an angel in Heaven." "Angel! Oh! I'm sorry. I--I didn't know any one was there. I just sing on my way home from work." "You've been working to-day?" She nodded. "Yes--Farmerettin'." "Farmer----?" "Workin' in the vineyard at Gaskill's." "Oh, I see. Do you like it?" "No," she said dryly. "I just do it for my health. Don't I look sick?" Peter wasn't used to having people make fun of him. Even as a waiter he had managed to preserve his dignity intact. But he smiled at her. "I was wondering what had become of the men around here." "They're so busy walkin' from one place to another to see where they can get the highest wages, that there's no time to work in between." "I see," said Peter, now really amused. "And does Mr. Jonathan McGuire have difficulty in getting men to work for him?" "Most of his hired help come from away--like you----But lately they haven't been stayin' long." "Why?" She slowed her pace a little and turned to look at him curiously. "Do you mean that you don't know the kind of a job you've got?" "Not much," admitted Peter. "In addition to looking after the preserve, I'm to watch after the men--and obey orders, I suppose." "H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name----" "Peter Nichols----" put in Peter promptly. "Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a hard time." "Yes, I'm against it!" translated Peter confidently. The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her singing--if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again. "_Up_ against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?" "Er--yes--I am." "I thought so. There was one of you in the glass factory. He always muffed the easy ones." "Oh, you work in a glass factory?" "Winters. Manufacturin' whiskey and beer bottles. Now we're goin' dry, they'll be makin' pop and nursin' bottles, I guess." "Do you help in the factory?" "Yes, and in the office. I can shorthand and type a little." "You must be glad when a summer comes." "I am. In winter I can't turn around without breakin' something. They dock you for that----" "And that's why you sing when you can't break anythin'?" "I suppose so. I like the open. It isn't right to be cooped up." They were getting along beautifully and Peter was even beginning to forget the weight of his heavy bag. She was a quaint creature and quite as unconscious of him as though he hadn't existed. He was just somebody to talk to. Peter ventured. "Er--would you mind telling me your name?" She looked at him and laughed friendly. "You must have swallowed a catechism, Mr. Nichols. But everybody in Black Rock knows everybody else--more'n they want to, I guess. There's no reason I shouldn't tell you. I don't mind your knowin'. My name is Beth Cameron." "Beth----?" "Yes, Bess--the minister had a lisp." Peter didn't lack a sense of humor. "Funny, isn't it?" she queried with a smile as he laughed, "bein' tied up for life to a name like that just because the parson couldn't talk straight." "Beth," he repeated, "but I like it. It's like you. I hope you'll let me come to see you when I get settled." "H-m," she said quizzically. "You don't believe in wastin' your time, do you?" And then, after a brief pause, "You know they call us Pineys back here in the barrens, but just the same we think a lot of ourselves and we're a little offish with city folks. You can't be too particular nowadays about the kind of people you go with." Peter stared at her and grinned, his sense of the situation more keenly touched than she could be aware of. "Particular, are you? I'm glad of that. All the more credit to me if you'll be my friend." "I didn't say I was your friend." "But you're going to be, aren't you? I know something about singing. I've studied music. Perhaps I could help you." "You! You've studied? Lord of Love! You're not lyin', are you?" He laughed. "No. I'm not lying. I was educated to be a musician." She stared at him now with a new look in her eyes but said nothing. So Peter spoke again. "Do you mean to say you've never thought of studying singing?" "Oh, yes," she said slowly at last, "I've thought of it, just as I've thought of goin' in the movies and makin' a million dollars. Lots of good _thinkin'_ does!" "You've thought of the movies?" "Yes, once. A girl went from the glass factory. She does extra ladies. She visited back here last winter. I didn't like what it did to her." "Oh!" Peter was silent for a while, aware of the pellucid meaning of her "it." He was learning quite as much from what she didn't say as from what she did. But he evaded the line of thought suggested. "You do get tired of Black Rock then?" "I would if I had time. I'm pretty busy all day, and--see here--Mr.--er--Nichols. If I asked as many questions as you do, I'd know as much as Daniel Webster." "I'm sorry," said Peter, "I beg your pardon." They walked on in silence for a few moments, Peter puzzling his brain over the extraordinary creature that chance had thrown in his way. He could see that she was quite capable of looking out for herself and that if her smattering of sophistication had opened her eyes, it hadn't much harmed her. He really wanted to ask her many more questions, but to tell the truth he was a little in awe of her dry humor which had a kind of primitive omniscience and of her laughter which he was now sure was more _at_, than with, him. But he had, in spite of her, peered for a moment into the hidden places of her mind and spirit. It was this intrusion that she resented and he could hardly blame her, since they had met only eighteen minutes ago. She trotted along beside him as though quite unaware of the sudden silence or of the thoughts that might have been passing in his mind. It was Beth who broke the silence. "Is your bag heavy?" she asked. "Not at all," said Peter, mopping the perspiration from his forehead. "But aren't we nearly there?" "Oh, yes. It's just a mile or so." Peter dropped his bag. "That's what you said it was, back there." "Did I? Well, maybe it isn't so far as that now. Let me carry your bag a while." Thus taunted, he rose, took the bag in his left hand and followed. "City folks aren't much on doin' for themselves, are they? The taxi system is very poor down here yet." Her face was expressionless, but he knew that she was laughing at him. He knew also that his bag weighed more than any army pack. It seemed too that she was walking much faster than she had done before--also that there was malicious humor in the smile she now turned on him. "Seems a pity to have such a long walk--with nothin' at the end of it." "I don't mind it in the least," gasped Peter. "And if you don't object to my asking you just one more question," he went on grimly, "I'd like you to tell me what is frightening Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire?" "Oh, McGuire. I don't know. Nobody does. He's been here a couple of weeks now, cooped up in the big house. Never comes out. They say he sees ghosts and things." "Ghosts!" She nodded. "He's hired some of the men around here to keep watch for them and they say some detectives are coming. You'll help too, I guess." "That should be easy." "Maybe. I don't know. My aunt works there. She's housekeeper. It's spooky, she says, but she can't afford to quit." "But they haven't _seen_ anything?" asked Peter incredulously. "No. Not yet. I guess it might relieve 'em some if they did. It's only the things you don't see that scare you." "It sounds like a great deal of nonsense about nothing," muttered Peter. "All right. Wait until you get there before you do much talkin'." "I will, but I'm not afraid of ghosts." And then, as an afterthought, "Are you?" "Not in daylight. But from what Aunt Tillie says, it must be something more than a ghost that's frightenin' Jonathan K. McGuire." "What does she think it is?" "She doesn't know. Mr. McGuire won't say. He won't allow anybody around the house without a pass. Oh, he's scared all right and he's got most of Black Rock scared too. He was never like this before." "Are you scared?" asked Peter. "No. I don't think I am really. But it's spooky, and I don't care much for shootin'." "What makes you think there will be shooting?" "On account of the guns and pistols. Whatever the thing is he's afraid of, he's not goin' to let it come near him if he can help it. Aunt Tillie says that what with loaded rifles, shotguns and pistols lyin' loose in every room in the house, it's as much as your life is worth to do a bit of dustin'. And the men--Shad Wells, Jesse Brown, they all carry automatics. First thing they know they'll be killin' somebody," she finished with conviction. "Who is Shad Wells----?" "My cousin, Shadrack E. Wells. He was triplets. The other two died." "Shad," mused Peter. "Sounds like a fish, doesn't it? But he isn't." And then more slowly, "Shad's all right. He's just a plain woodsman, but he doesn't know anything about making the trees grow," she put in with prim irony. "You'll be his boss, I guess. He won't care much about that." "Why?" "Because he's been runnin' things in a way. I hope you get along with him." "So do I----" "Because if you don't, Shad will eat you at one gobble." "Oh!" said Peter with a smile. "But perhaps you exaggerate. Don't you think I might take two--er--gobbles?" Beth looked him over, and then smiled encouragingly. "Maybe," she said, "but your hands don't look over-strong." Peter looked at his right hand curiously. It was not as brown as hers, but the fingers were long and sinewy. "They are, though. When you practice five hours a day on the piano, your hands will do almost anything you want them to." A silence which Peter improved by shifting his suitcase. The weight of it had ceased to be amusing. And he was about to ask her how much further Black Rock was when there was a commotion down the road ahead of them, as a dark object emerged from around the bend and amid a whirl of dust an automobile appeared. "It's the 'Lizzie'," exclaimed Beth unemotionally. And in a moment the taxi service of Black Rock was at Peter's disposal. "Carburetor trouble," explained the soiled young man at the wheel briefly, without apology. And with a glance at Peter's bag-- "Are you the man for McGuire's on the six-thirty?" Peter admitted that he was and the boy swung the door of the tonneau open. "In here with me, Beth," he said to the girl invitingly. In a moment, the small machine was whirled around and started in the direction from which it had come, bouncing Peter from side to side and enveloping him in dust. Jim Hagerman's "Lizzie" wasted no time, once it set about doing a thing, and in a few moments from the forest they emerged into a clearing where there were cows in a meadow, and a view of houses. At the second of these, a frame house with a portico covered with vines and a small yard with a geranium bed, all enclosed in a picket fence, the "Lizzie" suddenly stopped and Beth got down. "Much obliged, Jim," he heard her say. Almost before Peter had swept off his hat and the girl had nodded, the "Lizzie" was off again, through the village street, and so to a wooden bridge across a tea-colored stream, up a slight grade on the other side, where Jim Hagerman stopped his machine and pointed to a road. "That's McGuire's--in the pines. They won't let me go no further." "How much do I owe you?" asked Peter, getting down. "It's paid for, Mister. Slam the door, will ye?" And in another moment Peter was left alone. It was now after sunset, and the depths of the wood were bathed in shadow. Peter took the road indicated and in a moment reached two stone pillars where a man was standing. Beyond the man he had a glimpse of lawns, a well-kept driveway which curved toward the wood. The man at the gate was of about Peter's age but tall and angular, well tanned by exposure and gave an appearance of intelligence and capacity. "I came to see Mr. McGuire," said Peter amiably. "And what's your name?" "Nichols. I'm the new forester from New York." The young man at the gate smiled in a satirical way. "Nichols. That was the name," he ruminated. And then with a shout to some one in the woods below, "Hey, Andy. Come take the gate." All the while Peter felt the gaze of the young man going over him minutely and found himself wondering whether or not this was the person who was going to take him at a gobble. It was. For when the other man came running Peter heard him call the gateman, "Shad." "Are you Mr. Shad Wells?" asked Peter politely with the pleasant air of one who has made an agreeable discovery. "That's my name. Who told you?" "Miss Beth Cameron," replied Peter. "We came part of the way together." "H-m! Come," he said laconically and led the way up the road toward the house. Peter didn't think he was very polite. Had it not been for the precautions of his guide, Peter would have been willing quite easily to forget the tales that had been told him of Black Rock. The place was very prettily situated in the midst of a very fine growth of pines, spruce and maple. At one side ran the tea-colored stream, tumbling over an ancient dam to levels below, where it joined the old race below the ruin that had once been a mill. The McGuire house emerged in a moment from its woods and shrubbery, and stood revealed--a plain square Georgian dwelling of brick, to which had been added a long wing in a poor imitation of the same style and a garage and stables in no style at all on the slope beyond. It seemed a most prosaic place even in the gathering dusk and Peter seemed quite unable to visualize it as the center of a mystery such as had been described. And the laconic individual who had been born triplets was even less calculated to carry out such an illusion. But just as they were crossing the lawn on the approach to the house, the earth beneath a clump of bushes vomited forth two men, like the fruit of the Dragon's Teeth, armed with rifles, who barred their way. Both men were grinning from ear to ear. "All right, Jesse," said Shad with a laugh. "It's me and the new forester." He uttered the words with an undeniable accent of contempt. The armed figures glanced at Peter and disappeared, and Peter and Mr. Shad Wells went up the steps of the house to a spacious portico. There was not a human being in sight and the heavy wooden blinds to the lower floor were tightly shut. Before his guide had even reached the door the sound of their footsteps had aroused some one within the house, the door was opened the length of its chain and a face appeared at the aperture. "Who is it?" asked a male voice. "Shad Wells and Mr. Nichols, the man from New York." "Wait a minute," was the reply while the door was immediately shut again. Peter glanced around him comparing this strange situation with another that he remembered, when a real terror had come, a tangible terror in the shape of a countryside gone mad with blood lust. He smiled toward the bush where the armed men lay concealed and toward the gate where the other armed man was standing. It was all so like a situation out of an _opéra bouffe_ of Offenbach. What he felt now in this strange situation was an intense curiosity to learn the meaning of it all, to meet the mysterious person around whom all these preparations centered. Peter had known fear many times, for fear was in the air for weeks along the Russian front, the fear of German shells, of poison gas, and of that worst poison of all--Russian treachery. But that fear was not like this fear, which was intimate, personal but intangible. He marked it in the scrutiny of the man who opened the door and of the aged woman who suddenly appeared beside him in the dim hallway and led him noiselessly up the stair to a lighted room upon the second floor. At the doorway the woman paused. "Mr. Nichols, Mr. McGuire," she said, and Peter entered. CHAPTER IV THE JOB The room was full of tobacco smoke, through which Peter dimly made out a table with an oil lamp, beside which were chairs, a sofa, and beyond, a steel safe between the windows. As Peter Nichols entered, a man advanced from a window at the side, the shutter of which was slightly ajar. It was evident that not content to leave his safety in the hands of those he had employed to preserve it, he had been watching too. He was in his shirt sleeves, a man of medium height, compactly built, and well past the half century mark. The distinguishing features of his face were a short nose, a heavy thatch of brows, a square jaw which showed the need of the offices of a razor and his lips wore a short, square mustache somewhat stained by nicotine. In point of eagerness the manner of his greeting of the newcomer left nothing to be desired. Peter's first impression was that Jonathan K. McGuire was quite able to look out for himself, which confirmed the impression that the inspection to which Peter had been subjected was nothing but a joke. But when his employer began speaking rather jerkily, Peter noticed that his hands were unsteady and that neither the muscles of his face nor of his body were under complete control. Normally, he would have seemed much as Sheldon, Senior, had described him--a hard-fisted man, a close bargainer who had won his way to his great wealth by the sheer force of a strong personality. There was little of softness in his face, little that was imaginative. This was not a man to be frightened at the Unseen or to see terrors that did not exist. Otherwise, to Peter he seemed commonplace to the last degree, of Irish extraction probably, the kind of person one meets daily on Broadway or on the Strand. In a fur coat he might have been taken for a banker; in tweeds, for a small tradesman; or in his shirt as Peter now saw him, the wristbands and collar somewhat soiled from perspiration, for a laboring man taking his rest after an arduous day. In other words, he was very much what his clothes would make of him, betraying his origins in a rather strident voice meant perhaps to conceal the true state of his mind. "Glad to see you, Mr. Nichols. Thought you were never comin'," he jerked out. "I walked most of the way from Pickerel River. Something went wrong, with the 'Lizzie.'" "Oh--er--'Lizzie'. The flivver! I couldn't send my own car. I've got only one down here and I might need it." "It doesn't matter in the least--since I'm here." "Sit down, Mr. Nichols," went on McGuire indicating a chair. "You've been well recommended by Mr. Sheldon. I talked to him yesterday over long distance. He told you what I wanted?" "Something. Not much," said Peter with a view to getting all the information possible. "You wanted a forester----?" "Er--er--yes, that's it. A forester." And then he went on haltingly--"I've got about twenty thousand acres here--mostly scrub oak--pine and spruce. I've sold off a lot to the Government. A mess of it has been cut--there's been a lot of waste--and the fire season is coming around. That's the big job--the all-the-year job. You've had experience?" "Yes--in Russia. I'm a trained woodsman." "You're a good all-round man?" "Exactly what----?" began Peter. "You know how to look after yourself--to look after other men, to take charge of a considerable number of people in my employ?" "Yes. I'm used to dealing with men." "It's a big job, Mr. Nichols--a ticklish kind of a job for a furriner--one with some--er--unusual features--that may call for--er--a lot of tact. And--er--courage." It seemed to Peter that Jonathan K. McGuire was talking almost at random, that the general topic of forestry was less near his heart to-night than the one that was uppermost in Peter's mind, the mystery that surrounded his employer and the agencies invoked to protect him. It seemed as if he were loath to speak of them, as if he were holding Peter off at arm's length, so to say, until he had fully made up his mind that this and no other man was the one he wanted, for all the while he was examining the visitor with burning, beady, gray eyes, as though trying to peer into his mind. "I'm not afraid of a forester's job, no matter how big it is, if I have men enough," said Peter, still curious. "And you're a pretty good man in a pinch, I mean----" he put in jerkily, "you're not easy scared--don't lose your nerve." "I'll take my chances on that," replied Peter calmly. "I'm used to commanding men, in emergencies--if that's what you mean." "Yes. That's what I mean. Er--you're an Englishman, Mr. Sheldon says." "Er--yes," said Peter, "an Englishman," for this was the truth now more than ever before, and then repeated the story he had told in New York about his work in Russia. While Peter was talking, McGuire was pacing up and down the room with short nervous strides, nodding his head in understanding from time to time. When Peter paused he returned to his chair. "You British are a pretty steady lot," said McGuire at last. "I think you'll do. I like the way you talk and I like your looks. Younger than I'd hoped maybe, but then you're strong--Mr. Sheldon says you're strong, Mr. Nichols." "Oh, yes," said Peter, his curiosity now getting the better of him. "But it might be as well, Mr. McGuire, if you let me know just what, that is unusual, is to be required of me. I assume that you want me to take command of the men policing your grounds--and immediate property?" "Er--yes. That will have to be put in shape at once--at once." He leaned suddenly forward in his chair, his hairy hands clutching at his knees, while he blurted out with a kind of relieved tension, "No one must come near the house at night. No one, you understand----" "I understand, sir----" said Peter, waiting patiently for a revelation. "There'll be no excuse if any one gets near the house without my permission," he snarled. And then almost sullenly again--"You understand?" "Perfectly. That should not be difficult to----" "It may be more difficult than you think," broke in McGuire, springing to his feet again, and jerking out his phrases with strange fury. "Nothing is to be taken for granted. Nothing," he raged. Peter was silent for a moment, watching McGuire who had paced the length of the room and back. "I understand, sir," he said at last. "But doesn't it seem to you that both I and the man under me could do our work with more intelligence if we knew just who or what is to be guarded against?" Mr. McGuire stopped beside him as though transfixed by the thought. Then his fingers clutched at the back of a chair to which he clung for a moment in silence, his brows beetling. And when he spoke all the breath of his body seemed concentrated in a hoarse whisper. "You won't know that. You understand, I give the orders. You obey them. I am not a man who answers questions. Don't ask them." "Oh, I beg your pardon. So long as this thing you fear is human----" "Human! A ghost! Who said I was afraid? Sheldon? Let him think it. This is _my_ business. There are many things of value in this house," and he glanced towards the safe. "I'm using the right of any man to protect what belongs to him." "I see," said Peter. The man's tension relaxed as he realized Peter's coolness. "Call it a fancy if you like, Mr. Nichols----" he said with a shrug. "A man of my age may have fancies when he can afford to gratify 'em." "That's your affair," said Peter easily. "I take it then that the systematic policing of the grounds is the first thing I am to consider." "Exactly. The systematic policing of the grounds--the dividing of your men into shifts for day and night work--more at night than in the day. Three more men come to-morrow. They will all look to you for orders." "And who is in charge now?" "A man named Wells--a native--the foreman from one of the sawmills--but he--er--well, Mr. Nichols--I'm not satisfied. That's why I wanted a man from outside." "I understand. And will you give the necessary orders to him?" "Wells was up here to-day, I told him." "How many men are on guard here at the house?" "Ten and with the three coming--that makes thirteen----" McGuire halted--"thirteen--but you make the fourteenth," he added. Peter nodded. "And you wish me to take charge at once?" "At once. To-night. To-morrow you can look over the ground more carefully. You'll sleep in the old playhouse--the log cabin--down by the creek. They'll show you. It's connected with this house by 'phone. I'll talk to you again to-morrow; you'd better go down and get something to eat." McGuire went to the door and called out "Tillie!" And as a faint reply was heard, "Get Mr. Nichols some supper." Peter rose and offered his hand. "I'll try to justify your faith in me, sir. Much obliged." "Good-night." Peter went down the stairs with mingled feelings. If the words of Beth Cameron had created in his mind a notion that the mystery surrounding Black Rock was supernatural in character, the interview with Jonathan K. McGuire had dispelled it. That McGuire was a very much frightened man was certain, but it seemed equally certain to Peter that what he feared was no ghost or banshee but the imminence of some human attack upon his person or possessions. Here was a practical man, who bore in every feature of his strongly-marked face the tokens of a successful struggle in a hard career, the beginnings of which could not have been any too fortunate. A westerner whose broad hands and twisted fingers spoke eloquently of manual labor, a man who still possessed to all appearances considerable physical strength--a prey to the fear of some night danger which was too ominous even to be talked about. It was the quality of his terror that was disturbing. Peter was well acquainted with the physical aspects of fear--that is the fear of violence and death. That kind of fear made men restless and nervous, or silent and preoccupied; or like liquor it accentuated their weaknesses of fiber in sullenness or bravado. But it did not make them furtive. He could not believe that it was the mere danger of death or physical violence that obsessed his employer. That sort of danger perhaps there might be, but the fear that he had seen in McGuire's fanatical gray eyes was born of something more than these. Whatever it was that McGuire feared, it reached further within--a threat which would destroy not his body alone, but something more vital even than that--the very spirit that lived within him. Of his career, Peter knew nothing more than Sheldon, Senior, had told him--a successful man who told nothing of his business except to the Treasury Department, a silent man, with a passion for making money. What could he fear? Whom? What specter out of the past could conjure up the visions he had seen dancing between McGuire's eyes and his own? These questions it seemed were not to be answered and Peter, as he sat down at the supper table, put them resolutely from his mind and addressed himself to the excellent meal provided by the housekeeper. For the present, at least, fortune smiled upon him. The terrors of his employer could not long prevail against the healthy appetite of six-and-twenty. But it was not long before Peter discovered that the atmosphere of the room upstairs pervaded the dining room, library and halls. There were a cook and housemaid he discovered, neither of them visible. The housekeeper, if attentive, was silent, and the man who had opened the front door, who seemed to be a kind of general factotum, as well as personal bodyguard to Mr. McGuire, crept furtively about the house in an unquiet manner which would have been disturbing to the digestion of one less timorous than Peter. Before the meal was finished this man came into the room and laid a police whistle, a large new revolver and a box of cartridges beside Peter's dish of strawberries. "These are for you, sir," he whispered sepulchrally. "Mr. McGuire asked me to give them to you--for to-night." "Thanks," said Peter, "and you----" "I'm Stryker, sir, Mr. McGuire's valet." "Oh!" Peter's accent of surprise came from his inability to reconcile Stryker with the soiled shirt and the three days' growth of beard on the man upstairs, which more than ever testified to the disorder of his mental condition. And as Stryker went out and his footsteps were heard no more, the housekeeper emerged cautiously from the pantry. "Is everything all right, Mr. Nichols?" she asked in a stage whisper. "Right as rain. Delicious! I'm very much obliged to you." "I mean--er--there ain't anythin' else ye'd like?" "Nothing, thanks," said Peter, taking up the revolver and breaking it. He had cut the cover of the cartridge box and had slipped a cartridge into the weapon when he heard the voice of the woman at his ear. "D'ye think there's any danger, sir?" she whispered, while she nervously eyed the weapon. "I'm sure I don't know. Not to you, I'd say," he muttered, still putting the cartridges in the pistol. As an ex-military man, he was taking great delight in the perfect mechanism of his new weapon. "What is it----? I mean, d'ye think----," she stammered, "did Mr. McGuire say--just what it is he's afraid of?" "No," said Peter, "he didn't." And then with a grin, "Do you know?" "No, sir. I wish t'God I did. Then there'd be somethin' to go by." "I'm afraid I can't help you, Mrs. ----" "Tillie Bergen. I've been housekeeper here since the new wing was put on----" "Oh, yes," said Peter, pausing over the last cartridge as the thought came to him. "Then you must be Beth Cameron's aunt?" "Beth?" The woman's sober face wreathed in a lovely smile. "D'ye know Beth?" "Since this afternoon. She showed me the way." "Oh. Poor Beth." "Poor!" "Oh, we're all poor, Mr. Nichols. But Beth she's--different from the rest of us somehow." "Yes, she _is_ different," admitted Peter frankly. Mrs. Bergen sighed deeply. "Ye don't know how different. And now that--all this trouble has come, I can't get home nights to her. And she can't come to see me without permission. How long d'ye think it will last, sir?" "I don't know," said Peter, slipping the revolver and cartridges into his pockets. And then gallantly, "If I can offer you my services, I'd be glad to take you home at night----" "It's against orders. And I wouldn't dare, Mr. Nichols. As it is I've got about as much as I can stand. If it wasn't for the money I wouldn't be stayin' in the house another hour." "Perhaps things won't be so bad after a time. If anything is going to happen, it ought to be pretty soon." She regarded him wistfully as he moved toward the door. "An' ye'll tell me, sir, if anything out o' the way happens." "I hope nothing is going to happen, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter cheerfully. Stryker appeared mysteriously from the darkness as Peter went out into the hall. "The upstairs girl made up your bed down at the cabin, sir. The chauffeur took your bag over. You'll need these matches. If you'll wait, sir, I'll call Mr. Wells." Peter wondered at the man in this most unconventional household, for Stryker, with all the prescience of a well-trained servant, had already decided that Peter belonged to a class accustomed to being waited on. Going to the door he blew one short blast on a police whistle, like Peter's, which he brought forth from his pocket. "That will bring him, sir," he said. "If you'll go out on the portico, he'll join you in a moment." Peter obeyed. The door was closed and fastened behind him and almost before he had taken his lungs full of the clean night air (for the house had been hot and stuffy), a shadow came slouching across the lawn in the moonlight. Peter joined the man at once and they walked around the house, while Peter questioned him as to the number of men and their disposition about the place. There were six, he found, including Wells, with six more to sleep in the stable, which was also used as a guardhouse. Peter made the rounds of the sentries. None of them seemed to be taking the matter any too seriously and one at least was sound asleep beneath some bushes. Peter foresaw difficulties. Under the leadership of Shad Wells the strategic points were not covered, and, had he wished, he could have found his way, by using the cover of shadow and shrubbery, to the portico without being observed. He pointed this out to Wells who, from a supercilious attitude, changed to one of defiance. "You seem to think you know a lot, Mister?" he said. "I'd like to see ye try it." Peter laughed. "Very well. Take your posts and keep strict watch, but don't move. If I don't walk across the lawn from the house in half an hour I'll give you ten dollars. In return you can take a shot if you see me." He thought the men needed the object lesson. Peter was an excellent "point." He disappeared into the woods behind him and making his way cautiously out, found a road, doubling to the other side of the garage along which he went on his hands and knees and crawling from shrub to shrub in the shadows reached the portico without detection. Here he lighted a fag and quietly strolled down to the spot where he had left Shad Wells, to whom he offered a cigarette by way of consolation. Wells took it grudgingly. But he took it, which was one point gained. "Right smart, aren't ye?" said Shad. "No," said Peter coolly. "Anybody could have done it,--in three ways. The other two ways are through the pine grove to the left and from the big sycamore by the stream." "And how do you know all that?" "I was in the Army," said Peter. "It's a business like anything else." And he pointed out briefly where the five men should be stationed and why, and Shad, somewhat mollified by the cigarette, shrugged and agreed. "We'll do sentry duty in the regular way," went on Peter cheerfully, "with a corporal of the guard and a countersign. I'll explain in detail to-morrow." And then to Shad, "I'll take command until midnight, when you'll go on with the other shift until four. I'll make it clear to the other men. The countersign is the word 'Purple.' You'd better go and turn in. I'll call you at twelve." Peter watched the figure of the woodsman go ambling across the lawn in the direction of the garage and smiled. He also marked the vertical line of light which showed at a window on the second floor where another kept watch. The man called Jesse, the one who had been asleep beneath the bushes, and who, fully awake, had watched Peter's exhibition of scouting, now turned to Peter with a laugh. "I guess you're right, Mister. S'long's we're paid. But I'd like to know just what this 'ere thing is the ol' man's skeered of." "You know as much as I do. It will probably have two legs, two hands and a face and carry a gun. You'd better be sure you're not asleep when it comes. But if you care to know what I think, you can be pretty sure that it's coming--and before very long." "To-night?" "How do I know? Have a cigarette? You cover from the road to the big cedar tree; and keep your eyes open--especially in the shadows--and don't let anybody get you in the back." And so making the rounds, instilling in their minds a sense of real emergency, Peter gave the men their new sentry posts and made friends. He had decided to stay up all night, but at twelve he called Shad Wells and went down to look over his cabin which was a quarter of a mile away from the house near Cedar Creek (or "Crick" in the vernacular). The key was in the cabin door so he unlocked it and went in, and after striking a match found a kerosene lamp which he lighted and then looked about him. The building had only one room but it was of large dimensions and contained a wooden bed with four posts, evidently some one's heirloom, a bureau, washstand, two tables and an easy chair or two. Behind the bed was a miscellaneous lot of rubbish, including a crib, a rocking horse, a velocipede, beside some smaller toys. Whom had these things belonged to? A grandson of McGuire's? And was the daughter of McGuire like her father, unlovely, soiled and terror-stricken? His desultory mental queries suddenly stopped as he raised his eyes to the far corner of the room, for there, covered with an old shawl, he made out the lines of a piano. He opened the keyboard and struck a chord. It wasn't so bad--a little tuning--he could do it himself.... So this was his new home! He had not yet had the time or the opportunity to learn what new difficulties were to face him on the morrow, but the personal affairs of his employer had piqued his interest and for the present he had done everything possible to insure his safety for the night. To-morrow perhaps he would learn something more about the causes of this situation. He would have an opportunity too to look over the property and make a report as to its possibilities. To a man inured as Peter was to disappointments, what he had found was good. He had made up his mind to fit himself soldierlike into his new situation and he had to admit now that he liked the prospect. As though to compensate for past mischief, Fate had provided him with the one employment in the new land for which he was best suited by training and inclination. It was the one "job" in which, if he were permitted a fair amount of freedom of action and initiative, he was sure that he could "make good." The trees he could see were not the stately pines of Zukovo, but they were pines, and the breeze which floated in to him through the cabin door was laden with familiar odors. The bed looked inviting, but he resolutely turned his back to it and unpacked his suitcase, taking off his tailor-made clothing and putting on the flannel shirt, corduroy trousers and heavy laced boots, all of which he had bought before leaving New York. Then he went to the doorway and stood looking out into the night. The moonbeams had laid a patine of silver upon the floor of the small clearing before the door, and played softly among the shadows. So silent was the night that minute distant sounds were clearly audible--the stream seemed to be tinkling just at his elbow, while much farther away there was a low murmur of falling water at the tumbling dam, mingling with the sighs of vagrant airs among the crowns of the trees, the rustle and creak of dry branches, the whispering of leaf to leaf. Wakeful birds deceived by the moon piped softly and were silent. An owl called. And then for the briefest moment, except for the stream, utter silence. Peter strode forth, bathed himself in the moonlight and drank deep of the airs of the forest. America! He had chosen! Her youth called to his. He wanted to forget everything that had gone before, the horrors through which he had passed, both physical and spiritual,--the dying struggles of the senile nation, born in intolerance, grown in ignorance and stupidity which, with a mad gesture, had cast him forth with a curse. He had doffed the empty prerogatives of blood and station and left them in the mire and blood. The soul of Russia was dead and he had thought that his own had died with hers, but from the dead thing a new soul might germinate as it had now germinated in him. He had been born again. _Novaya Jezn!_ The New Life! He had found it. He listened intently as though for its heartbeats, his face turned up toward the silent pines. For a long while he stood so and then went indoors and sat at the old piano playing softly. CHAPTER V NEW ELEMENTS Some of the men on guard in the middle watch reported that they had heard what seemed to be the sounds of music very far away in the woods and were disturbed at the trick their ears had played upon them. But Peter didn't tell them the truth. If listening for the notes of a piano would keep them awake, listen they should. He slept until noon and then went to the house for orders. Morning seemed to make a difference in the point of view. If the moon had made the night lovely, the sun brought with it the promise of every good thing. The walk through the woods to Black Rock House was a joy, very slightly alleviated by the poor condition of the trees under which Peter passed. It was primeval forest even here, with valuable trees stunted and poor ones vastly overgrown according to nature's law which provides for the survival of the fittest. This was the law too, which was to be applied to Peter. Would he grow straight and true in this foreign soil or gnarled and misshapen like the cedars and the maples that he saw? Yes. He would grow and straight ... straight. Optimism seemed to be the order of the new day. At the house he found that his employer had put on a clean shirt and was freshly shaven. The windows of the room were opened wide to the sunlight which streamed into the room, revealing its darkest corners. McGuire himself seemed to have responded to the effulgence of the sun and the balmy air which swept across his table. His manner was now calm, his voice more measured. When Peter came into the room, Mr. McGuire closed the heavy doors of the steel safe carefully and turned to greet him. "Oh, glad to see you, Nichols," he said more cheerfully. "A quiet night, I understand." "Yes," laughed Nichols, "except for the man who got through the guards and smoked a cigarette on your portico." "What!" gasped McGuire. "Don't be alarmed, sir. It was only myself. I wanted to show Shad Wells the defects of his police system." "Oh! Ah! Ha, ha, yes, of course. Very good. And you weren't shot at?" "Oh, no, sir--though I'd given them leave to pot me if they could. But I think you're adequately protected now." "Good," said McGuire. "Have a cigar. I'm glad you've come. I wanted to talk to you." And when they had lighted their cigars, "It's about this very guard. I--I'm afraid you'll have to keep your men under cover at least in the daytime." "Under cover?" "Well, you see," went on McGuire in some hesitation, "my daughter (he called it darter) Peggy is motoring down from New York to-day. I don't want her, but she's coming. I couldn't stop her. She doesn't know anything about this--er--this guarding the house. And I don't want her to know. She mustn't know. She'd ask questions. I don't want questions asked. I'll get her away as soon as I can, but she mustn't be put into any danger." "I see," said Peter examining the ash of his cigar. "You don't want her to know anything about the impending attempts upon your life and property." "Yes, that's it," said McGuire impatiently. "I don't want her to find out. Er--she couldn't understand. You know women, Nichols. They talk too much." He paused "It's--er--necessary that none of her friends in New York or mine should know of--er--any danger that threatens me. And of course--er--any danger that threatens me would--in a way--threaten her. You see?" "I think so." "I've put all weapons under cover. I don't want her to see 'em. So when she comes--which may be at any moment--nothing must be said about the men outside and what they're there for. In the daytime they must be given something to do about the place--trimming the lawns, pruning trees or weeding the driveway. Pay 'em what they ask, but don't let any of 'em go away. You'll explain this to the new men. As for yourself--er--of course you're my new superintendent and forester." McGuire got up and paced the floor slowly looking at Peter out of the tail of his eye. "I like you, Nichols. We'll get along. You've got courage and intelligence--and of course anybody can see you're a gentleman. You'll keep on taking your meals in the house----" "If you'd like me to go elsewhere----" "No. I see no reason why Peggy shouldn't like you. I hope she will. But she's very headstrong, has been since a kid. I suppose I humor her a bit--who wouldn't? I lost my oldest girl and her boy with the 'flu.' Her husband's still in France. And Peggy's got a will of her own, Peg has," he finished in a kind of admiring abstraction. "Got a society bee in her bonnet. Wants to go with all the swells. I'm backin' her, Nichols. She'll do it too before she's through," he finished proudly. "I haven't a doubt of it," said Peter soberly, though very much amused at his employer's ingenuousness. Here then, was the weak spot in the armor of this relentless millionaire--his daughter. The older one and her child were dead. That accounted for the toys in the cabin. Peggy sounded interesting'--if nothing else, for her vitality. "I'd better see about this at once, then. If she should come----" Peter rose and was about to leave the room when there was a sound of an automobile horn and the sudden roar of an exhaust outside. He followed McGuire to the window and saw a low red runabout containing a girl and a male companion emerging from the trees. A man in the road was holding up his hands in signal for the machine to stop and had barely time to leap aside to avoid being run down. The car roared up to the portico, the breathless man, who was Shad Wells, pursuing. Peter was glad that he had had the good sense not to shoot. He turned to his employer, prepared for either anger or dismay and found that McGuire was merely grinning and chuckling softly as though to himself. "Just like her!" he muttered, "some kid, that!" Meanwhile Shad Wells, making a bad race of it was only halfway up the drive, when at a signal and shout from McGuire, he stopped running, stared, spat and returned to his post. There was a commotion downstairs, the shooting of bolts, the sounds of voices and presently the quick patter of feminine footsteps which McGuire, now completely oblivious of Peter, went to meet. "Well, daughter!" "Hello, Pop!" Peter caught a glimpse of a face and straggling brown hair, quickly engulfed in McGuire's arms. "What on earth----" began McGuire. "Thought we'd give you a little touch of high life, Pop. It was so hot in town. And the hotel's full of a convention of rough necks. I brought Freddy with me and Mildred and Jack are in the other car. We thought the rest might do us good." The voice was nasal and pitched high, as though she were trying to make herself audible in a crowd. Peter was ready to revise his estimate that her face was pretty, for to him no woman was more beautiful than her own voice. "But you can't stay here, Peg," went on McGuire, "not more than over night--with all these people. I'm very busy----" "H-m. We'll see about that. I never saw the woods look prettier. We came by Lakewood and Brown's Mills and--Why who----?" As she sidled into the room she suddenly espied Peter who was still standing by the window. "Who----? Why--Oh, yes, this is my new superintendent and forester. Meet my daughter,--Mr. Nichols." Peter bowed and expressed pleasure. Miss McGuire swept him with a quick glance that took in his flannel shirt, corduroy breeches and rough boots, nodded pertly and turned away. Peter smiled. Like Beth Cameron this girl was very particular in choosing her acquaintances. "I nearly killed a guy in the driveway," she went on, "who was he, Pop?" "Er--one of the gardeners, I've told them to keep people off the place." "Well. I'd like to see him keep _me_ off! I suppose he'll be trying to hold up Mildred and Jack----" She walked to the window passing close beside Peter, paying as little attention to his presence as if he had been, an article of furniture. "Can't you get this man to go down," she said indicating Peter, "and tell them it's all right?" "Of course," said Peter politely. "I'll go at once. And I'd like to arrange to look over part of the estate with Wells, Mr. McGuire," he added. "All right, Nichols," said the old man with a frown. And then significantly--"But remember what I've told you. Make careful arrangements before you go." "Yes, sir." Peter went down the stairs, amused at his dismissal. On the veranda he found a young man sitting on some suitcases smoking a cigarette. This was Freddy, of course. He afterwards learned that his last name was Mordaunt, that he was a part of Peggy's ambitions, and that he had been invalided home from a camp and discharged from the military service. As Freddy turned, Peter bowed politely and passed on. Having catalogued him by his clothing, Freddy like Peggy had turned away, smoking his cigarette. Peter thought that some Americans were born with bad manners, some achieved bad manners, and others had bad manners thrust upon them. Impoliteness was nothing new to him, since he had been in America. It was indigenous. Personally, he didn't mind what sort of people he met, but he seemed to be aware that a new element had come to Black Rock which was to make disquietude for Jonathan K. McGuire and difficulty for himself. And yet too there was a modicum of safety, perhaps, in the presence of these new arrivals, for it had been clear from his employer's demeanor that the terrors of the night had passed with the coming of the day. He commented on this to Shad Wells, who informed him that night was always the old man's bad time. "Seems sort o' like he's skeered o' the dark. 'Tain't nateral. 'Fraid o' ghosts, they say," he laughed. "Well," said Peter, "we've got our orders. And the thing he fears isn't a ghost. It's human." "Sure?" "Yes. And since he's more afraid after dark he has probably had his warning. But we're not to take any chances." Having given his new orders to Jesse, who was to be in charge during their absence, they struck into the woods upon the other side of the Creek for the appraisal of a part of the strip known as the "Upper Reserve." From an attitude of suspicion and sneering contempt Peter's companion had changed to one of indifference. The unfailing good humor of the new superintendent had done something to prepare the ground for an endurable relation between them. Like Beth Cameron Shad had sneered at the word "forester." He was the average lumberman, only interested in the cutting down of trees for the market--the commercial aspect of the business--heedless of the future, indifferent to the dangers of deforestation. Peter tried to explain to him that forestry actually means using the forest as the farmer uses his land, cutting out the mature and overripe trees and giving the seedlings beneath more light that they may furnish the succeeding crop of timber. He knew that the man was intelligent enough, and explained as well as he could from such statistics as he could recall how soon the natural resources of the country would be exhausted under the existing indifference. "Quite a bit of wood here, Mister--enough for my job," said Shad. But after a while Peter began to make him understand and showed him what trees should be marked for cutting and why. They came to a burned patch of at least a hundred acres. "Is there any organized system for fighting these fires?" Peter asked. "System! Well, when there's a fire we go and try to put it out----" laughed Wells. "How do the fires start?" "Campers--hunters mos'ly--in the deer season. Railroads sometimes--at the upper end." "And you keep no watch for smoke?" "Where would we watch from?" "Towers. They ought to be built--with telephone connection to headquarters." "D'ye think the old man will stand for that?" "He ought to. It's insurance." "Oh!" "It looks to me, Wells," said Peter after a pause, "that a good 'crown' fire and a high gale, would turn all this country to cinders--like this." "It's never happened yet." "It may happen. Then good-by to your jobs--and to Black Rock too perhaps." "I guess Black Rock can stand it, if the old man can." They walked around the charred clearing and mounted a high sand dune, from which they could see over a wide stretch of country. With a high wooden platform here the whole of the Upper Reserve could be watched. They sat for a while among the sandwort and smoked, while Peter described the work in the German forests that he had observed before the war. Shad had now reached the point of listening and asking questions as the thought was more and more borne into his mind that this new superintendent was not merely talking for talk's sake, but because he knew more about the woods than any man the native had ever talked with, and wanted Shad to know too. For Peter had an answer to all of his questions, and Shad, though envious of Peter's grammar--for he had reached an age to appreciate it--was secretly scornful of Peter's white hands and carefully tied black cravat. This dune was at the end of the first day's "cruise" and Shad had risen preparatory to returning toward Black Rock when they both heard a sound,--away off to their right, borne down to them clearly on the breeze--the voice of a girl singing. "Beth," said Shad with a kindling eye. And then carelessly spat, to conceal his emotions. "What on earth can she be doing in here?" asked Peter. "Only half a mile from the road. It's the short cut from Gaskill's." "I see," from Peter. "Do you reckon you can find your way back alone, Nichols?" said Shad, spitting again. Peter grinned. "I reckon I can try," he said. Shad pointed with his long arm in the general direction of Heaven. "That way!" he muttered and went into the scrub oak with indecent haste. Peter sat looking with undisguised interest at the spot where he had disappeared, tracing him for a while through the moving foliage, listening to the crackling of the underbrush, as the sounds receded. It was time to be turning homeward, but the hour was still inviting, the breeze balmy, the sun not too warm, so Peter lay back among the grasses in the sand smoking a fresh cigarette. Far overhead buzzards were wheeling. They recalled those other birds of prey that he had often watched, ready to swoop down along the lines of the almost defenseless Russians. Here all was so quiet. The world was a very beautiful place if men would only leave it so. The voice of the girl was silent now. Shad had probably joined her. Somehow, Peter hadn't been able to think of any relationship, other than the cousinly one, between Shad Wells and Beth. He had only known the girl for half an hour but as Aunt Tillie Bergen had said, her niece seemed different from the other natives that Peter had met. Her teeth were sound and white, suggesting habits of personal cleanliness; her conversation, though careless, showed at the very least, a grammar school training. And Shad--well, Shad was nothing but a "Piney." Pity--with a voice like that--she ought to have had opportunities--this scornful little Beth. Peter closed his eyes and dozed. He expected to have no difficulty in finding his way home, for he had a pocket compass and the road could not be far distant. He liked this place. He would build a tower here, a hundred-foot tower, of timbers, and here a man should be stationed all day--to watch for wisps of smoke during the hunting season. Smoke ... Tower ... In a moment he snored gently. "Halloo!" came a voice in his dream. "Halloo! Halloo!" Peter started rubbing his eyes, aware of the smoking cigarette in the grasses beside him. Stupid, that! To do the very thing he had been warning Shad Wells against. He smeared the smoking stub out in the sand and sat up yawning and stretching his arms. "Halloo!" said the voice in his dream, almost at his ear. "Tryin' to set the woods afire?" The question had the curious dropping intonation at its end. But the purport annoyed him. Nothing that she could have said could have provoked him more! Behind her he saw the dark face of Shad Wells break into a grin. "I fell asleep," said Peter, getting to his feet. Beth laughed. "Lucky you weren't burnt to death. _Then_ how would the trees get along?" Peter's toe burrowed after the defunct cigarette. "I know what I'm about," he muttered, aware of further loss of dignity. "Oh, do you? Then which way were you thinkin' of goin' home?" Peter glanced around, pointed vaguely, and Beth Cameron laughed. "I guess you'd land in Egg Harbor, or thereabouts." Her laugh was infectious and Peter at last echoed it. "You's better be goin' along with us. Shad asked me to come and get you, didn't you, Shad?" Peter glanced at the woodsman's black scowl and grinned, recalling his desertion and precipitate disappearance into the bushes. "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you both," said Peter diplomatically. "But I think I can find my way in." "Not if you start for Hammonton or Absecon, you can't. I've known people to spend the night in the woods a quarter of a mile from home." "I shouldn't mind that." "But Shad would. He'd feel a great responsibility if you didn't turn up for the ghost-hunt. Wouldn't you, Shad?" Shad wagged his head indeterminately, and spat. "Come on," he said sullenly, and turned, leading the way out to the northward, followed by Beth with an inviting smile. She still wore her denim overalls which were much too long for her and her dusty brown boots seemed like a child's. Between moments of avoiding roots and branches, Peter watched her strong young figure as it followed their leader. Yesterday, he had thought her small; to-day she seemed to have increased in stature--so uncertain is the masculine judgment upon any aspect of a woman. But his notions in regard to her grace and loveliness were only confirmed. There was no concealing them under her absurd garments. Her flanks were long and lithe, like a boy's, but there was something feminine in the way she moved, a combination of ease and strength made manifest, which could only come of well-made limbs carefully jointed. Every little while she flashed a glance over her shoulder at him, exchanging a word, even politely holding back a branch until he caught it, or else when he was least expecting it, letting it fly into his face. From time to time Shad Wells would turn to look at them and Peter could see that he wasn't as happy as he might have been. But Beth was very much enjoying herself. They had emerged at last into the road and walked toward Black Rock, Beth in the center and Peter and Shad on either side. "I've been thinkin' about what you said yesterday," said Beth to Peter. "About----?" "Singin' like an angel in Heaven," she said promptly aware of Shad's bridling glance. "Oh, well," repeated Peter, "you do--you know." "It was very nice of you--and you a musician." "Musician!" growled Shad. "He ain't a musician." "Oh, yes, he is, and he says I've a voice like an angel. _You_ never said that, Shad Wells." "No. Nor I won't," he snapped surlily. Peter would have been more amused if he hadn't thought that Shad Wells was unhappy. He needed the man's allegiance and he had no wish to make an enemy of him. "Musician!" Shad growled. "Then it was you the men heard last night." "I found a piano in the cabin. I was trying it," said Peter. Shad said nothing in reply but he put every shade of scorn into the way in which he spat into the road. "A piano----!" Beth gasped. "Where? What cabin?" "The playhouse--where I live," said Peter politely. "Oh." There was a silence on the part of both of his companions, awkwardly long. So Peter made an effort to relieve the tension, commenting on the new arrivals at Black Rock House. At the mention of Peggy's name Beth showed fresh excitement. "Miss McGuire! Here? When----?" "This morning. Do you know her?" "No. But I've seen her. I think she's just lovely." "Why?" "She wears such beautiful clothes and--and hats and veils." Peter laughed. "And that's your definition of loveliness." "Why, yes," she said in wonder. "Last year all the girls were copyin' her, puttin' little puffs of hair over their ears--I tried it, but it looked funny. Is she going to be here long? Has she got a 'beau' with her? She always had. It's a wonder she doesn't run over somebody, the way she drives." "She nearly got me this mornin'," growled Shad. "I wish she would--if you're going to look like a meat-ax, Shad Wells." There was no reconciling them now, and when Beth's home was reached, all three of them went different ways. What a rogue she was! And poor Shad Wells who was to have taken Peter at a gobble, seemed a very poor sort of a creature in Beth's hands. She amused Peter greatly, but she annoyed him a little too, ruffled up the shreds of his princely dignity, not yet entirely inured to the trials of social regeneration. And Shad's blind adoration was merely a vehicle for her amusement. It would have been very much better if she hadn't used Peter's compliment as a bait for Shad. Peter had come to the point of liking the rough foreman even if he was a new kind of human animal from anything in Peter's experience. And so was Beth. A new kind of animal--something between a harrier and a skylark, but wholesome and human too, a denim dryad, the spirit of health, joy and beauty, a creature good to look at, in spite of her envy of the fashionable Miss Peggy McGuire with her modish hats, cerise veils and ear puffs, her red roadsters and her beaux. Poverty sat well upon Beth and the frank blue eyes and resolute chin gave notice that whatever was to happen to her future she was honorable and unafraid. But if there was something very winning about her, there was something pathetic too. Her beauty was so unconscious of her ridiculous clothing, and yet Peter had come to think of it as a part of her, wondering indeed what she would look like in feminine apparel, in which he could not imagine her, for the other girls of Black Rock had not so far blessed his vision. Aunt Tillie Bergen had told him, over his late breakfast, of the difficulties that she and Beth had had to keep their little place going and how Beth, after being laid off for the summer at the factory, had insisted upon working in the Gaskill's vineyard to help out with the household. There ought to be something for Beth Cameron, better than this--something less difficult--more ennobling. Thinking of these things Peter made his way back to the cabin. Nothing of a disturbing nature had happened around Black Rock House, except the arrival of the remainder of McGuire's unwelcome house party, which had taken to wandering aimlessly through the woods, much to the disgust of Jesse Brown, who, lost in the choice between "dudes" and desperadoes, had given up any attempt to follow Peter's careful injunctions in regard to McGuire. It was still early and the supper hour was seven, so Peter unpacked his small trunk which had arrived in his absence and then, carefully shutting door and windows, sat at the piano and played quietly at first, a "Reverie" of Tschaikowsky, a "Berceuse" of César Cui, the "Valse Triste" of Jean Sibelius and then forgetting himself--launched forth into Chopin's C Minor Étude. His fingers were stiff for lack of practice and the piano was far from perfect, but in twenty minutes he had forgotten the present, lost in memories. He had played this for Anastasie Galitzin. He saw the glint of the shaded piano lamp upon her golden head, recalled her favorite perfume.... Silver nights upon the castle terrace.... Golden walks through the autumn forest.... Suddenly a bell rang loudly at Peter's side, it seemed. Then while he wondered, it rang again. Of course--the telephone. He found the instrument in the corner and put the receiver to his ear. It was McGuire's voice. "That you, Nichols?" it asked in an agitated staccato. "Yes, sir." "Well, it's getting dark, what have you done about to-night?" "Same as last night," said Peter smiling, "only more careful." "Well, I want things changed," the gruff voice rose. "The whole d--n house is open. I can't shut it with these people here. Your men will have to move in closer--but keep under cover. Can you arrange it?" "Yes, I think so." "I'll want you here--with me--you understand. You were coming to supper?" "Yes, sir." "Well--er--I've told my daughter and so--would you mind putting on a dress suit----? Er--if you have one--a Tuxedo will do." "Yes, sir," said Peter. "That's all right." "Oh--er--thanks. You'll be up soon?" "Yes." "Good-by." With a grin, Peter hung up the receiver, recalling the soiled, perspiring, unquiet figure of his employer last night. But it seemed as though McGuire were almost as much in awe of his daughter as of the danger that threatened, for, in the McGuire household, Miss Peggy, it appeared, was paramount. Peter's bathroom was Cedar Creek. In his robe, he ran down the dusky path for a quick plunge. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he lighted his lamp and dressed leisurely. He had come to his cravat, to which he was wont to pay more than a casual attention, when he was aware of a feeling of discomfort--of unease. In the mirror something moved, a shadow, at the corner of the window. He waited a moment, still fingering his cravat, and then sure that his eyes had made no mistake, turned quickly and, revolver in hand, rushed outside. Just as he did so a man with a startled face disappeared around the corner of the cabin. Peter rushed after him, shouting and turned the edge just in time to see his shape leap into the bushes. "Who goes there?" shouted Peter crisply. "Halt, or I'll fire." But the only reply was a furious crashing in the undergrowth. Peter fired twice at the sound, then followed in, still calling. No sound. Under the conditions a chase was hopeless, so Peter paused listening. And then after a few moments a more distant crackling advised him that his visitor had gotten well away. And so after a while he returned to the cabin and with his weapon beside him finished his interrupted toilet. But his brows were in a tangle. The mystery surrounding him seemed suddenly to have deepened. For the face that he had seen at the window was that of the stranger who had stared at him so curiously--the man of the soft hat and dark mustache--who had seemed so startled at seeing him in the Pennsylvania Station when he was leaving New York. CHAPTER VI THE HOUSE OF TERROR Who--what was this stranger who seemed so interested in his whereabouts? Peter was sure that he had made no mistake. It was an unusual face, swarthy, with high cheek bones, dark eyes, a short nose with prominent nostrils. Perhaps it would not have been so firmly impressed on his memory except for the curious look of startled recognition that Peter had surprised on it at the station in New York. This had puzzled him for some moments in the train but had been speedily lost in the interest of his journey. The man had followed him to Black Rock. But why? What did he want of Peter and why should he skulk around the cabin and risk the danger of Peter's bullets? It seemed obvious that he was here for some dishonest purpose, but what dishonest purpose could have any interest in Peter? If robbery, why hadn't the man chosen the time while Peter was away in the woods? Peter grinned to himself. If the man had any private sources of information as to Peter's personal assets, he would have known that they consisted of a two-dollar watch and a small sum in money. If the dishonest purpose were murder or injury, why hadn't he attacked Peter while he was bathing, naked and quite defenseless, in the creek? There seemed to be definite answers to all of these questions, but none to the fact of the man's presence, to the fact of his look of recognition, or to the fact of his wish to be unobserved. Was he a part of the same conspiracy which threatened McGuire? Or was this a little private conspiracy arranged for Peter alone? And if so, why? So far as Peter knew he hadn't an enemy in America, and even if he had made one, it was hardly conceivable that any one should go to such lengths to approach an issue and then deliberately avoid it. But there seemed no doubt that something was up and that, later, more would be heard from this curious incident. It seemed equally certain that had the stranger meant to shoot Peter he could easily have done so in perfect safety to himself through the window, while Peter was fastening his cravat. Reloading his revolver and slipping it into his pocket, Peter locked the cabin carefully, and after listening to the sounds of the woods for awhile, made his way up the path to Black Rock House. He had decided to say nothing about the incident which, so far as he could see, concerned only himself, and so when the men on guard questioned him about the shots that they had heard he told them that he had been firing at a mark. This was quite true, even if the mark had been invisible. Shad Wells was off duty until midnight so Peter went the rounds, calling the men to the guardhouse and telling them of the change in the orders. They were to wait until the company upon the portico went indoors and then, with Jesse in command, they were to take new stations in trees and clumps of bushes which Peter designated much nearer the house. The men eyed his dinner jacket with some curiosity and not a little awe, and Peter informed them that it was the old man's order and that he, Peter, was going to keep watch from inside the house, but that a blast from a whistle would fetch him out. He also warned them that it was McGuire's wish that none of the visitors should be aware of the watchmen and that therefore there should be no false alarms. Curiously enough Peter found McGuire in a state very nearly bordering on calm. He had had a drink. He had not heard the shots Peter had fired nor apparently had any of the regular occupants of the house. The visitors had possibly disregarded them. From the pantry came a sound with which Peter was familiar, for Stryker was shaking the cocktails. And when the ladies came downstairs the two men on the portico came in and Peter was presented to the others of the party, Miss Delaplane, Mr. Gittings and Mr. Mordaunt. The daughter of the house examined Peter's clothing and then, having apparently revised her estimate of him, became almost cordial, bidding him sit next Miss Delaplane at table. Mildred Delaplane was tall, handsome, dark and aquiline, and made a foil for Peggy's blond prettiness. Peter thought her a step above Peggy in the cultural sense, and only learned afterward that as she was not very well off, Peggy was using her as a rung in the social ladder. Mordaunt, Peter didn't fancy, but Gittings, who was jovial and bald, managed to inject some life into the party, which, despite the effect of the cocktails, seemed rather weary and listless. McGuire sat rigidly at the head of the table, forcing smiles and glancing uneasily at doors and windows. Peter was worried too, not as to himself, but as to any possible connection that there might be between the man with the dark mustache and the affairs of Jonathan McGuire. Mildred Delaplane, who had traveled in Europe in antebellum days, found much that was interesting in Peter's fragmentary reminiscences. She knew music too, and in an unguarded moment Peter admitted that he had studied. It was difficult to lie to women, he had found. And so, after dinner, that information having transpired, he was immediately led to the piano-stool by his hostess, who was frequently biased in her social judgments by Mildred Delaplane. Peter played Cyril Scott's "Song from the East," and then, sure of Miss Delaplane's interest, an Étude of Scriabine, an old favorite of his which seemed to express the mood of the moment. And all the while he was aware of Jonathan McGuire, seated squarely in the middle of the sofa which commanded all the windows and doors, with one hand at his pocket, scowling and alert by turns, for, though the night had fallen slowly, it was now pitch black outside. Peter knew that McGuire was thinking he hadn't hired his superintendent as a musician to entertain his daughter's guests, but that he was powerless to interfere. Nor did he wish to excite the reprobation of his daughter by going up and locking himself in his room. Peggy, having finished her cigarette with Freddy on the portico, had come in again and was now leaning over the piano, her gaze fixed, like Mildred's, upon Peter's mobile fingers. "You're really too wonderful a superintendent to be quite true," said Peggy when Peter had finished. "But _do_ give us a 'rag.'" Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do ragtime." "Quit your kidding! I want to dance." "I'm not--er--kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it at all--not at all." Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door. "Fred-die-e!" she called. Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigar was unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. "I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are all around the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around." "No matter. I'll stick it out for a while." "You're better off here than anywhere, I should say. No one would dare----" Here Freddy at the piano struck up "Mary" and further conversation was drowned in commotion. Mildred Delaplane was preëmpted by Mr. Gittings and Peggy came whirling alone toward Peter, arms extended, the passion for the dance outweighing other prejudices. Peter took a turn, but four years of war had done little to improve his steps. "I'm afraid all my dancing is in my fingers," he muttered. Suddenly, as Freddy Mordaunt paused, Peggy stopped and lowered her arms. "Good Lord!" she gasped. "What's the matter with Pop?" McGuire had risen unsteadily and was peering out into the darkness through the window opposite him, his face pallid, his lips drawn into a thin line. Peggy ran to him and caught him by the arm. "What is it, Pop? Are you sick?" "N-no matter. Just a bit upset. If you don't mind, daughter, I think I'll be going up." "Can I do anything?" "No. Stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just tell Stryker, will you, Nichols, and then come up to my room." Peggy was regarding him anxiously as he made his way to the door and intercepted Peter as he went to look for the valet. "What is it, Mr. Nichols?" she asked. "He may be sick, but it seems to me----" she paused, and then, "Did you see his eyes as he looked out of the window?" "Indigestion," said Peter coolly. "You'll see after him, won't you? And if he wants me, just call over." "I'm sure he won't want you. A few home remedies----" And Peter went through the door. Stryker had appeared mysteriously from somewhere and had already preceded his master up the stair. When Peter reached the landing, McGuire was standing alone in the dark, leaning against the wall, his gaze on the lighted bedroom which, the valet was carefully examining. "What is it, sir?" asked Peter coolly. "You thought you saw something?" "Yes--out there--on the side portico----" "You must be mistaken--unless it was one of the watchmen----" "No, no. I saw----" "What, sir?" "No matter. Do you think Peggy noticed?" "Just that you didn't seem quite yourself----" "But not that I seemed--er----" "Alarmed? I said you weren't well." Peter took the frightened man's arm and helped him into his room. "I'm not, Nichols," he groaned. "I'm not myself." "I wouldn't worry, sir. I'd say it was physically impossible for any one to approach the house without permission. But I'll go down and have another look around." "Do, Nichols. But come back up here. I'll want to talk to you." So Peter went down. And, evading inquiries in the hallway, made his way out through the hall and pantry. Here a surprise awaited him, for as he opened the door there was a skurry of light footsteps and in a moment he was in the pantry face to face with Beth Cameron, who seemed much dismayed at being discovered. "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked in amazement. She glanced at his white shirt front and then laughed. "I came to help Aunt Tillie dish up." "You!" He didn't know why he should have been so amazed at finding her occupying a menial position in this household. She didn't seem to belong to the back stairs! And yet there she was in a plain blue gingham dress which made her seem much taller, and a large apron, her tawny hair casting agreeable shadows around her blue eyes, which he noticed seemed much darker by night than by day. She noticed the inflection of his voice and laughed. "Why not? I thought Aunt Tillie would need me--and besides I wanted to peek a little." "Ah, I see. You wanted to see Miss Peggy's new frock through the keyhole?" "Yes--and the other one. Aren't they pretty?" "I suppose so." "I listened, too. I couldn't help it." "Eavesdropping!" She nodded. "Oh, Mr. Nichols, but you do play the piano beautifully!" "But not like an angel in Heaven," said Peter with a smile. "Almost--if angels play. You make me forget----" she paused. "What----?" "That's there's anything in the world except beauty." In the drawing-room Freddy, having found himself, had swept into a song of the cabarets, to which there was a "close harmony" chorus. "There's that----," he muttered, jerking a thumb in the direction from which he had come. But she shook her head. "No," she said. "That's different." "How--different?" "Wrong--false--un--unworthy----" As she groped for and found the word he stared at her in astonishment. And in her eyes back of the joy that seemed to be always dancing in them he saw the shadows of a sober thought. "But don't you like dance music?" he asked. "Yes, I do, but it's only for the feet. Your music is for--for _here_." And with a quick graceful gesture she clasped her hands upon her breast. "I'm glad you think so, because that's where it comes from." At this point Peter remembered his mission, which Beth's appearance had driven from his mind. "I'll play for you sometime," he said. He went past her and out to the servants' dining-room. As he entered with Beth at his heels, Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, turned in from the open door to the kitchen garden, clinging to the jamb, her lips mumbling, as though she were continuing a conversation. But her round face, usually the color and texture of a well ripened peach, was the color of putty, and seemed suddenly to have grown old and haggard. Her eyes through her metal-rimmed spectacles seemed twice their size and stared at Peter as though they saw through him and beyond. She faltered at the door-jamb and then with an effort reached a chair, into which she sank gasping. Beth was kneeling at her side in a moment, looking up anxiously into her startled eyes. "Why, what is it, Aunt Tillie?" she whispered quickly. "What it is? Tell me." The coincidence was too startling. Could the same Thing that had frightened McGuire have frightened the housekeeper too? Peter rushed past her and out of the open door. It was dark outside and for a moment he could see nothing. Then objects one by one asserted themselves, the orderly rows of vegetable plants in the garden, the wood-box by the door, the shrubbery at the end of the portico, the blue spruce tree opposite, the loom of the dark and noncommittal garage. He knew that one of his men was in the trees opposite the side porch and another around the corner of the kitchen, in the hedge, but he did not want to raise a hue and cry unless it was necessary. What was this Thing that created terror at sight? He peered this way and that, aware of an intense excitement, in one hand his revolver and in the other his police whistle. But he saw no object move, and the silence was absolute. In a moment--disappointed--he hurried back to the servants' dining-room. Mrs. Bergen sat dazed in her chair, while Beth, who had brought her a glass of water, was making her drink of it. "Tell me, what is it?" Beth was insisting. "Nothing--nothing," murmured the woman. "But there is----" "No, dearie----" "Are you sick?" "I don't feel right. Maybe--the heat----" "But your eyes look queer----" "Do they----?" The housekeeper tried to smile. "Yes. Like they had seen----" A little startled as she remembered the mystery of the house, Beth cast her glance into the darkness outside the open door. "You _are_--frightened!" she said. "No, no----" "What was it you saw, Mrs. Bergen," asked Peter gently. He was just at her side and at the sound of his voice she half arose, but recognizing Peter she sank back in her chair. Peter repeated his question, but she shook her head. "Won't you tell us? What was it you saw? A man----?" Her eyes sought Beth's and a look of tenderness came into them, banishing the vision. But she lied when she answered Peter's question. "I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--I think I'll go up----" She took another swallow of the water and rose. And with her strength came a greater obduracy. "I saw nothin'----" she repeated again, as she saw that he was still looking at her. "Nothin' at all." Peter and Beth exchanged glances and Beth, putting her hand under the housekeeper's arm, helped the woman to the back stairs. Peter stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen floor, his gaze on the door through which the woman had vanished. Aunt Tillie too! She had seen some one, some Thing--the same some one or Thing that McGuire had seen. But granting that their eyes had not deceived them, granting that each had seen Something, what, unless it were supernatural, could have frightened McGuire and Aunt Tillie too? Even if the old woman had been timid about staying in the house, she had made it clear to Peter that she was entirely unaware of the kind of danger that threatened her employer. Peter had believed her then. He saw no reason to disbelieve her now. She had known as little as Peter about the cause for McGuire's alarm. And here he had found her staring with the same unseeing eyes into the darkness, with the same symptoms of nervous shock as McGuire had shown. What enemy of McGuire's could frighten Aunt Tillie into prostration and seal her lips to speech? Why wouldn't she have dared to tell Peter what she had seen? What was this secret and how could she share it with McGuire when twenty-four hours ago she had been in complete ignorance of the mystery? Why wouldn't she talk? Was the vision too intimate? Or too horrible? Peter was imaginative, for he had been steeped from boyhood in the superstitions of his people. But the war had taught him that devils had legs and carried weapons. He had seen more horrible sights than most men of his years, in daylight, at dawn, or silvered with moonlight. He thought he had exhausted the possibilities for terror. But he found himself grudgingly admitting that he was at the least a little nervous--at the most, on the verge of alarm. But he put his whistle in his mouth, drew his revolver again and went forth. First he sought out the man in the spruce tree. It was Andy. He had seen no one but the people on the porch and in the windows. It was very dark but he took an oath that no one had approached the house from his side. "You saw no one talking with Mrs. Bergen by the kitchen door?" "No. I can't see th' kitchen door from here." Peter verified. A syringa bush was just in line. "Then you haven't moved?" asked Peter. "No. I was afraid they'd see me." "They've seen something----" "You mean----?" "I don't know. But look sharp. If anything comes out this way, take a shot at it." "You think there's something----" "Yes--but don't move. And keep your eyes open!" Peter went off to the man in the hedge behind the kitchen--Jesse Brown. "See anything?" asked Peter. "Nope. Nobody but the chauffeur." "The chauffeur?" "He went up to th' house a while back." "Oh--how long ago?" "Twenty minutes." "I see." And then, "You didn't see any one come away from the kitchen door?" "No. He's thar yet, I reckon." Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of a lantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was washing the two cars. "Have you been up to the house lately?" "Why, no," said the man, in surprise. "You're sure?" asked Peter excitedly. "Sure----" "Then come with me. There's something on." The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quickly to the house. It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distracting sounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. So Peter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of the house, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundred yards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reached the kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screech owl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse, were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, still pondering the situation, went into the house. It was extraordinary how the visitor, whoever he was, could have gotten away without having been observed, for though the night was black the eyes of the men outside were accustomed to it and the lights from the windows sent a glimmer into the obscurity. Of one thing Peter was now certain, that the prowler was no ghost or banshee, but a man, and that he had gone as mysteriously as he had come. Peter knew that his employer would be anxious until he returned to him, but he hadn't quite decided to tell McGuire of the housekeeper's share in the adventure. He had a desire to verify his belief that Mrs. Bergen was frightened by the visitor for a reason of her own which had nothing to do with Jonathan McGuire. Any woman alarmed by a possible burglar or other miscreant would have come running and crying for help. Mrs. Bergen had been doggedly silent, as though, rather than utter her thoughts, she would have bitten out her tongue. It was curious. She had seemed to be talking as though to herself at the door, and then, at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen behind her, had turned and fallen limp in the nearest chair. The look in her face, as in McGuire's, was that of terror, but there was something of bewilderment in both of them too, like that of a solitary sniper in the first shock of a shrapnel wound, a look of anguish that seemed to have no outlet, save in speech, which was denied. To tell McGuire what had happened in the kitchen meant to alarm him further. Peter decided for the present to keep the matter from him, giving the housekeeper the opportunity of telling the truth on the morrow if she wished. He crossed the kitchen and servants' dining-room and just at the foot of the back stairs met Mrs. Bergen and Beth coming down. So he retraced his steps into the kitchen, curious as to the meaning of her reappearance. At least she had recovered the use of her tongue. "I couldn't go to bed, just yet, Mr. Nichols," she said in reply to Peter's question. "I just couldn't." Peter gazed at her steadily. This woman held a clew to the mystery. She glanced at him uncertainly but she had recovered her self-possession, and her replies to his questions, if anything, were more obstinate than before. "I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--nothin'. I was just a bit upset. I'm all right now. An' I want Beth to go home. That's why I came down." "But, Aunt Tillie, if you're not well, I'm going to stay----" "No. Ye can't stay here. I want ye to go." And then, turning excitedly to Peter, "Can't ye let somebody see her home, Mr. Nichols?" "Of course," said Peter. "But I don't think she's in any danger." "No, but she can't stay here. She just can't." Beth put her arm around the old woman's shoulder. "I'm not afraid." Aunt Tillie was already untying Beth's apron. "I know ye're not, dearie. But ye can't stay here. I don't want ye to. I don't want ye to." "But if you're afraid of something----" "Who said I was afraid?" she asked, glaring at Peter defiantly. "I'm not. I just had a spell--all this excitement an' extra work--an' everything." She lied. Peter knew it, but he saw no object to be gained in keeping Beth in Black Rock House, so he went out cautiously and brought the chauffeur, to whom he entrusted the safety of the girl. He would have felt more comfortable if he could have escorted her himself, but he knew that his duty was at the house and that whoever the mysterious person was it was not Beth that he wanted. But what was Mrs. Bergen's reason for wishing to get rid of her? As Beth went out of the door he whispered in her ear, "Say nothing of this--to any one." She nodded gravely and followed the man who had preceded her. When the door closed behind Beth and the chauffeur, Peter turned quickly and faced the housekeeper. "Now," he said severely, "tell me the truth." She stared at him with a falling jaw in a moment of alarm--then closed her lips firmly. And, as she refused to reply, "Do you want me to tell Mr. McGuire that you were talking to a stranger at the kitchen door?" She trembled and sinking in a chair buried her face in her hands. "I don't want to be unkind, Mrs. Bergen, but there's something here that needs explaining. Who was the man you talked to outside the door?" "I--I can't tell ye," she muttered. "You must. It's better. I'm your friend and Beth's----" The woman raised her haggard face to his. "Beth's friend! Are ye? Then ask me no more." "But I've got to know. I'm here to protect Mr. McGuire, but I'd like to protect you too. Who is this stranger?" The woman lowered her head and then shook it violently. "No, no. I'll not tell." He frowned down at her head. "Did you know that to-night McGuire saw the stranger--the man that _you_ saw--and that he's even more frightened than you?" The woman raised her head, gazed at him helplessly, then lowered it again, but she did not speak. The kitchen was silent, but an obbligato to this drama, like the bray of the ass in the overture to "Midsummer Night's Dream," came from the drawing-room, where Freddy Mordaunt was now singing a sentimental ballad. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bergen, but if Mr. McGuire is in danger to-night, I've got to know it." "To-night!" she gasped, as though clutching at a straw. "Not to-night. Nothin'll happen to-night. I'm sure of that, Mr. Nichols." "How do you know?" She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperation. "For the love o' God, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talk to anybody?" She gasped with a choking throat. "_He_ ain't comin' back again--not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to." Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her. "All right, Mrs. Bergen," he said soothingly. "I'll take your word for it, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange--very startling." "Yes--strange. God knows it is. But I--I can't tell ye anything." "But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire--upstairs. I've got to go up--now." "Say to him----?" she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. "Ye can't tell him I was talkin' to anybody." And then more wildly, "Ye mustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself--that's the God's truth, I was--when ye come in. It was so strange--an' all. Don't tell him, Mr. Nichols," she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, and clutching at his hand. "For my sake, for Beth's----" "What has Beth to do with it?" "More'n ye think. Oh, God----" she broke off. "What am I sayin'----? Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either----" "Who? McGuire?" "No--no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols," she sobbed. "I can't speak. Don't ye see I can't?" So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry. "Oh, all right," he said more cheerfully, "you'd better be getting to bed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up." "And ye won't tell McGuire?" she pleaded. "I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to." She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed to take some courage from his attitude. "God bless ye, sir." "Good-night, Mrs. Bergen." And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairs with a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror. CHAPTER VII MUSIC Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows, a whisky bottle and glass on the table beside him. His face had lost its pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of glassy bewilderment. "Why the H---- couldn't you come sooner?" He whined the question, not angrily, but querulously, like a child. "I was having a look around," replied Peter coolly. "Oh! And did you find anybody?" "No." "H-m! I thought you wouldn't." Peter hesitated. He meant to conceal the housekeeper's share in the night's encounters, but he knew that both Andy and the chauffeur would talk, and so, "There _was_ somebody outside, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You were not mistaken, a man prowling in the dark near the kitchen. Andy thought it was the chauffeur, who was in the garage washing the cars." "Ah!" McGuire started up, battling for his manhood. It seemed to Peter that his gasp was almost one of relief at discovering that his eyes had not deceived him, that the face he had seen was that of a real person, instead of the figment of a disordered mind. "Ah! Why didn't they shoot him?" "I've just said, sir, Andy thought it was the chauffeur." McGuire was pacing the floor furiously. "He has no business to think. I pay him to act. And you--what did you do?" "Three of us searched the whole place--every tree, every bush--every shadow----. The man has gone." "Gone," sneered the other. "A H---- of a mess you're making of this job!" Peter straightened angrily, but managed to control himself. "Very well, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Then you'd better get somebody else at once." He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said. Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after him and caught him by the arm. "No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d---- touchy. Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!" Peter paused, his hand on the knob, and looked down into the man's flabby, empurpled countenance. "I thought you meant it," he said. "No. I--I didn't. I--I like you, Nichols--liked you from the very first--yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the boneheads here." Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled pleasantly. "You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the chauffeur. They're on excellent terms." McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter to another one near him. "Sit down, Nichols. Another glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky with an assumption of ease and they drank. "You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty glass down, "I know what I'm about. There _is_ somebody trying to get at me. It's no dream--no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him--I would have shot him through the window--if it hadn't been for Peggy--and the others--but I--I didn't dare--for reasons. She mustn't know----" And then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?" Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which still came from below. "No. They're having a good time." "That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope. And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why do you think so?" "Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance. I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day, getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing--seeing where the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try something else--that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these guards, if you don't want him to." "But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously. Peter was silent a moment. "I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr. McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw--and that is that he wants to see you--to talk with you----" McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared, "I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the dark. He's been seen--if he's shot it's his own lookout. And he _will_ be shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot--shoot to kill. If they fail I'll----" He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio. Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man, who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn, friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior, had described him to be. The love of making money had succumbed to a more primitive passion which for the time being had mastered him. From what had been revealed, it seemed probable that it was not death or bodily injury that he feared, for Peter had seen him stand up at the window, a fair target for any good marksman, but an interview with this nocturnal visitor who seemed bent upon bringing it about. Indeed, the childish bravado of his last speech had voiced a wish, but beneath the wish Peter had guessed a protest against the inevitable. Peter acknowledged McGuire's right to seclusion in his own house, but he found himself wondering whether death for the intruder as proposed by his employer were a justifiable means of preserving it, especially if the strange visitor did not himself use violence to gain his ends. And so, when McGuire presently poured himself another glass of whisky, and drank it, Peter took the liberty of asking the question. "I am ignorant of your laws in this country, Mr. McGuire, but doesn't it seem that short of forcible entry of this house we would hardly be justified in shooting the man?" "I take the responsibility for that." "I understand. But what I was going to propose was a hunt through the woods to-morrow. A description of this man would be helpful. For instance, whether he was smoothly shaven or whether he had a beard--or--or a mustache?" McGuire scowled. "The man has a slight growth of beard--of mustache. But what difference does that make? No one has a right here--without my permission." Peter sipped at his glass. As he had suspected, there were two of them. "That's true. But even with this, we can move with more intelligence. This forest is your property. If we find any person who can't give an account of himself, we could take him into custody and turn him over to the proper authorities." "No. No," cried McGuire. "And have him set loose after a trivial examination? Little good that would do. This man who is trying to reach me----" McGuire stopped suddenly, glaring at his superintendent with bloodshot eyes, and Peter very politely waited for him to go on. But he brought his empty glass down on the table with a crash which shattered it. "He mustn't reach me," he roared. "I won't see him. That's understood. He's a man I'd have no more compunction about shooting than----" McGuire, with a curious suddenness, stopped again. Then rose and resumed his habit of pacing the floor. For a moment it had almost seemed as if he were on the point of a revelation. But the mood passed. Instead of speaking further he threw out his arms in a wide gesture. "I've said enough," he growled, "more than enough. You know your duty." And he gestured toward the door. "Do it!" he finished brusquely. Peter had already risen, and Stryker unemotionally opened the door for him. "I'll stay on duty all night, Mr. McGuire," he said quietly. "I'd advise you to turn in and get some sleep. You need it." "Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks, Nichols," said McGuire, following him to the door and offering a flabby hand. "Don't mind what I've said to-night. I think we understand each other. Stryker will see that the house is locked when the young people come up. Keep your men to the mark and take no chances." "Good-night." The remainder of the night, as Mrs. Bergen had predicted, proved uneventful, and at daylight Peter went to his cabin and tumbled into bed, too tired to think further of McGuire's visitors--or even of the man with the black mustache. The next day he lay abed luxuriously for a while after he had awakened, but no amount of quiet thinking availed to clarify the mystery. There were two men, one bearded, interested in watching McGuire, another with a black mustache, interested in Peter. And so, after wondering again for some puzzling moments as to how Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, had come to be involved in McGuire's fortunes, he gave the problem up. Foreseeing difficulties over breakfast at the house, he had arranged to make his own coffee on a small oil stove which happened to be available, and so Peter set the pot on to boil and while he dressed turned over in his mind the possibilities of the future. It seemed quite certain that the antagonism, whatever its nature, between his employer and the prowling stranger must come to an issue of some sort almost at once. The intruder, if he were the sort of man who could inspire terror, would not remain content merely to prowl fruitlessly about with every danger of being shot for his pains, and McGuire could hardly remain long in his present situation without a physical or mental collapse. Why hadn't McGuire taken flight? Why indeed had he come to Black Rock House when it seemed that he would have been much safer amongst the crowds of the city, where he could fall back upon the protection of the police and their courts for immunity from this kind of persecution? Pieced together, the phrases his employer had let slip suggested the thought that he had come to Black Rock to escape publicity in anything that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his death. But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie. Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano, awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeply absorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened, poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye. The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes Peter had caught her by the hand. Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him. "I--I was listening," she gasped. "Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long have you been here?" "I--I don't know. Not long." "I'm so glad." She was coloring very prettily. "You--you told me you--you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely. "Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but----" He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled. "I thought you'd be farmeretting," he said. But she shook her head. "I quit--yesterday." He didn't ask the reason. He was really enjoying the sight of her. Few women are comely in the morning hours, which have a merciless way of exaggerating minute imperfections. Beth hadn't any minute imperfections except her freckles, which were merely Nature's colorings upon a woodland flower. She seemed to fill the cabin with morning fragrance, like a bud just brought in from the garden. "I'm very glad you've come," he said gallantly, leading her over to the double window where there was a chintz-covered seat. "I've wanted very much to talk to you." She followed him protestingly. "But I didn't come to be talked to. I came to listen to you play." "You always arrive in the midst of music," he laughed. "I played you in, without knowing it. That was an Elfentanz----" "What's that?" "A dance of the Elves--the fairies." And then, with a laugh, "And the little devils." "The little devils? You mean _me_!" "Elf--fairy and devil too--but mostly elf." "I'm not sure I like that--but I _do_ like the music. Please play it again." She was so lovely in her eagerness that he couldn't refuse, his fingers straying from the dance by slow transitions into something more quiet, the "Romance" of Sibelius, and then after that into a gay little _scherzo_, at the end of which he turned suddenly to find her flushed and breathless, regarding him in a kind of awe. "How lovely!" she whispered. "There were no devils in that." "No, only fairies." "Angels too--but somethin' else--that quiet piece--like the--the memory of a--a--sorrow." "'Romance,' it's called," he explained gently. "Oh!" "The things we dream. The things that ought to be, but aren't." She took a deep breath. "Yes, that's it. That's what it meant. I felt it." And then, as though with a sudden shyness at her self-revelation, she glanced about. "What a pretty place! I've never been here before." "How did you find your way?" "Oh, I knew where the cabin was. I came through the woods and across the log-jam below the pool. Then I heard the music. I didn't think you'd mind." "Mind! Oh, I say. I don't know when I've been so pleased." "Are you really? You _say_ a lot." "Didn't I play it?" That confused her a little. "Oh!" she said demurely. "And now, will you talk to me?" "Yes, of course. But----" "But what----?" "I--I'm not sure that I ought to be here." "Why not?" "It's kind of--unusual." He laughed. "You wouldn't be you, if you weren't unusual." She glanced at him uneasily. "You see, I don't know you very well." "You're very exclusive in Black Rock!" he laughed. "I guess we _have_ to be exclusive whether we want to or not," she replied. "Don't you think I'll do?" "Maybe. I oughtn't to have come, but I just couldn't keep away." "I'm glad you did. I wanted to see you." "It wasn't that," she put in hastily. "I had to hear you play again. That's what I mean." "I'll play for you whenever you like." "Will you? Then play again, now. It makes me feel all queer inside." Peter laughed. "Do you feel that way when you sing?" "No. It all comes out of me then." "Would you mind singing for me, Beth?" he asked after a moment. "I--I don't think I dare." He got up and went to the piano. "What do you sing?" But she hadn't moved and she didn't reply. So he urged her. "In the woods when you're coming home----?" "Oh, I don't know----It just comes out--things I've heard--things I make up----" "What have you heard? I don't know that I can accompany you, but I'll try." She was flushing painfully. He could see that she wanted to sing for him--to be a part of this wonderful dream-world in which he belonged, and yet she did not dare. "What have you heard?" he repeated softly, encouraging her by running his fingers slowly over the simple chords of a major key. Suddenly she started up and joined him by the piano. "That's it--'The long, long trail a-windin'----" and in a moment was singing softly. He had heard the air and fell in with her almost at once. "There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingale is singing And a bright moon beams----" Like the good musician that he was, Peter submerged himself, playing gently, his gaze on his fingers, while he listened. He had made no mistake. The distances across which he had heard her had not flattered. Her voice was untrained, of course, but it seemed to Peter that it had lost nothing by the neglect, for as she gained confidence, she forgot Peter, as he intended that she should, and sang with the complete abstraction of a thrush in the deep wood. Like the thrush's note, too, Beth's was limpid, clear, and sweet, full of forest sounds--the falling brook, the sigh of night winds.... When the song ended he told her so. "You do say nice things, don't you?" she said joyously. "Wouldn't you--if it cost you nothing and was the truth? You must have your voice trained." "Must! I might jump over the moon if I had a broomstick." "It's got to be managed somehow." "Then you're not disappointed in the way it sounds, close up?" She stood beside him, leaning against the piano, her face flushed, her breath rapid, searching his face eagerly. Peter knew that it was only the dormant artist in her seeking the light, but he thrilled warmly at her nearness, for she was very lovely. Peter's acquaintance with women had been varied, but, curiously enough, each meeting with this girl instead of detracting had only added to her charm. "No. I'm not disappointed in it," he said quite calmly, every impulse in him urging a stronger expression. But he owed a duty to himself. _Noblesse oblige!_ It was one of the mottoes of his House--(not always followed--alas!). With a more experienced woman he would have said what was in his mind. He would probably have taken her in his arms and kissed her at once, for that was really what he would have liked to do. But Beth.... Perhaps something in the coolness of his tone disconcerted her, for she turned away from the piano. "You're very kind," she said quietly. He had a feeling that she was about to slip away from him, so he got up. "Won't you sing again, Beth?" But she shook her head. For some reason the current that had run between them was broken. As she moved toward the door, he caught her by the hand. "Don't go yet. I want to talk to you." "I don't think I ought." And then, with a whimsical smile, "And you ought to be out makin' the trees grow." He laughed. "There's a lot of time for that." She let him lead her to the divan again and sat, her fingers dovetailed around a slender knee. "I--I'm sorry I made fun of you the other day," she confessed immediately. "I didn't mind in the least." "But you _did_ seem to know it all," she said. And then smiled in the direction of the piano. "Now--I'm comin' to think you do. Even Shad says you're a wonder. I--I don't think he likes you, though----" she admitted. "I'm sorry to hear that." "Don't you care. Shad don't like anybody but himself and Goda'mighty--with God trailin' a little." Peter smiled. Her singing voice may have been impersonal but one could hardly think that of her conversation. "And you, Beth--where do _you_ come in?" She glanced at him quickly. "Oh, I----," she said with a laugh, "I just trail along after God." Her irony meant no irreverence but a vast derogation of Shad Wells. Somehow her point of view was very illuminating. "I'm afraid you make him very unhappy," he ventured. "That's _his_ lookout," she finished. Peter was taking a great delight in watching her profile, the blue eyes shadowed under the mass of her hair, eyes rather deeply set and thoughtful in repose, the straight nose, the rather full underlip ending in a precipitous dent above her chin. He liked that chin. There was courage there and strength, softened at once by the curve of the throat, flowing to where it joined the fine deep breast. Yesterday she had seemed like a boy. To-day she was a woman grown, feminine in every graceful conformation, on tiptoe at the very verge of life. But there was no "flapper" here. What she lacked in culture was made up in refinement. He had felt that yesterday--the day before. She belonged elsewhere. And yet to Peter it would have seemed a pity to have changed her in any particular. Her lips were now drawn in a firm line and her brows bore a curious frown. "You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?" She flashed a glance at him. "That's what everybody calls me." "My name is Peter." "Yes, I know." And then, "That's funny." "Funny!" "You look as if your name ought to be Algernon." "Why?" he asked, laughing. "Oh, I don't know. It's the name of a man in a book I read--an Englishman. You're English, you said." "Half English," said Peter. "What's the other half?" "Russian." He knew that he ought to be lying to her, but somehow he couldn't. "Russian! I thought Russians all had long hair and carried bombs." "Some of 'em do. I'm not that kind. The half of me that's English is the biggest half, and the safest." "I'm glad of that. I'd hate to think of you as bein' a Bolshevik." "H-m. So would I." "But Russia's where you get your music from, isn't it? The band leader at Glassboro is a Russian. He can play every instrument. Did you learn music in Russia?" Beth was now treading dangerous ground and so it was time to turn the tables. "Yes, a little," he said, "but music has no nationality. Or why would I find a voice like yours out here?" "Twenty miles from nowhere," she added scornfully. "How did you come here, Beth? Would you mind telling me? You weren't born here, were you? How did you happen to come to Black Rock?" "Just bad luck, I guess. Nobody'd ever come to Black Rock just because they want to. We just came. That's all." "Just you and Aunt Tillie? Is your father dead?" he asked. She closed her eyes a moment and then clasped her knees again. "I don't like to talk about family matters." "Oh, I----" And then, gently, she added, "I never talk about them to any one." "Oh, I'm sorry," said Peter, aware of the undercurrent of sadness in her voice. "I didn't know that there was anything painful to you----" "I didn't know it myself, until you played it to me, just now, the piece with the sad, low voices, under the melody. It was like somebody dead speakin' to me. I can't talk about the things I feel like that." "Don't then----Forgive me for asking." He laid his fingers softly over hers. She withdrew her hand quickly, but the look that she turned him found his face sober, his dark eyes warm with sympathy. And then with a swift inconsequential impulse born of Peter's recantation, "I don't s'pose there's any reason why I shouldn't tell you," she said more easily. "Everybody around here knows about me--about us. Aunt Tillie and I haven't lived here always. She brought me here when I was a child." She paused again and Peter remained silent, watching her intently. As she glanced up at him, something in the expression of his face gave her courage to go on. "Father's dead. His name was Ben Cameron. He came of nice people," she faltered. "But he--he was no good. We lived up near New Lisbon. He used to get drunk on 'Jersey Lightnin'' and tear loose. He was all right between whiles--farmin'--but whisky made him crazy, and then--then he would come home and beat us up." "Horrible!" "It was. I was too little to know much, but Aunt Tillie's husband came at last and there was a terrible fight. Uncle Will was hurt--hurt so bad--cut with a knife--that he never was the same again. And my--my father went away cursing us all. Then my mother died--Uncle Will too--and Aunt Tillie and I came down here to live. That's all. Not much to be proud of," she finished ruefully. Peter was silent. It was a harrowing, sordid story of primitive passion. He was very sorry for her. Beth made an abrupt graceful movement of an arm across her brows, as though to wipe out the memory. "I don't know why I've told you," she said. "I never speak of this to any one." "I'm so sorry." He meant it. And Beth knew that he did. CHAPTER VIII THE PLACARD The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he ventured, "Did you hear from your father before he died?" "Aunt Tillie did,--once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live." "You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time----" he mused. "Yes. She's an angel--and I love her. Why is it that good people have nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too--he was younger than she was--my great-uncle--Jack Bray--he forged a check--or somethin' up in Newark--and went to the penitentiary." "And is he dead too?" "No--not at last accounts. He's out--somewhere. When I was little he used to come to Aunt Tillie for money--a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies. He wanted me to go with him--thought I could be as good as Mary Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go--from what I know now. He was a bad man. Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had--most of what was left from the old farm, I guess." "Do you think----" began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed--er--frightened last night?" he asked at last. "I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never lies to me." "She seemed very much disturbed." "Her nerve's not what it used to be--especially since Mr. McGuire's taken to seein' things----" "You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray--that he had come back again last night?" "Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it--and yet," she paused, "yes,--it might have been----" She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so, "I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs. Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?" "Why--do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked. His reply was noncommittal. "I just wanted you to know you could count on me----" he said soberly. "I think you've had trouble enough." "But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can't _make_ me go to New York if I don't want to." She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed. "I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried to make you do anything you didn't want to do," he said. She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd--I'd----" "What would you do?" "Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she finished confidently. The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the secrecy--all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled at her amusedly. "But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he was terrified--almost to the verge of collapse?" Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity. "Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You don't mean----?" "I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself against." "I can't believe----," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie----?" "Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr. McGuire." "Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment. "There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too,--thought he was the chauffeur." Beth's excitement was growing with the moments. "Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr. McGuire--no more'n I did," she gasped. "She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just bewildered--frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something. But there was a man outside and she knows who he is." "But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in bewilderment. Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is." "Well, did you _ever?_" "No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling. "It does beat _anything_." "It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with him----" "I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat. "I'll go with you," he said. For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of terror to any one. What was the answer? "Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire," Beth said suddenly. "She just couldn't know. She tells me everything." "But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have met in New York----" "What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully. Peter laughed. "It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters." "I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe it." They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns, stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand. "What's that?" she asked, pointing. Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it. They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side by side, and intensely interested, they read: TO MIKE MCGUIRE I'VE COME BACK. YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE GOT AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'VE GOT. ACT PRONTO. I'LL COME FOR MY ANSWER AT ELEVEN FRIDAY NIGHT--AT THIS TREE. NO TRICKS. IF THERE'S NO ANSWER--YOU KNOW WHAT I'LL DO. HAWK. "Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth----?" "Another----," said Peter cryptically. "You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!" "This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he? _Pronto!_ That means haste." "But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth. Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over, examining it critically. "I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him." "Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look queer." "It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must have come from the person McGuire saw last night." Beth looked bewildered. "But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with--with Hawk? She never knew anybody of that name." "Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course." "Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically. Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories. "Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm going to find out," he finished. When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek, Beth stopped, and held out her hand. "I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr.----" "Peter----," he put in. "Good-by, Mr. Peter." "Just Peter----" he insisted. "Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come again?" "Yes. And I'm going to get you some music----" "Singin' music?" she gasped. He nodded. "And you'll let me know if I can help--Aunt Tillie or you?" She bobbed her head and was gone. Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute and confidence that had ever been paid him--at least by a woman. A visit of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender. The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else. And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished, to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them--that had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child--and one is always gentle with children. He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous voice. He would have to develop it. He really would. All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording. Blackmail? Probably. The "_pronto_" was significant. This message could hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs. Bergen? And if so, how and where had she known him without Beth's being aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger? Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace. And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray? Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic significance--a pact--a threat which each man held over the other. Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very devil to pay--if not "Hawk." Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was, for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime necessity to the security of the estate. He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad that none of them noticed him and meeting Stryker, who was hovering around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer. "I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man. "Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important." Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor. "Well," he said rather peevishly. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that I thought----" "What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of cardboard in Peter's hand. "What----?" he gasped. Peter smiled and shrugged coolly. "It may be only a joke, sir--and I hardly know whether I'm even justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin." "Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the trespass sign. "Of course--that's the usual warning----" "It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure. McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the extraordinary document were far from steady. The gay flowers of the dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred and turned slowly in the chair. "You--you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly. "Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire. McGuire took the knife--twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A hasp-knife," he repeated dully. "I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on account of----" "Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on guard. "If there's nothing else just now, I'll----" "Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one else see this--this paper?" "Yes--Mrs. Bergen's niece--she saw it first." "My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?" "I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written." "Ah----" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently. "Where--where is the tree on which you found it?" "A maple--just in the wood--at the foot of the lawn." "Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them. "G---- d---- you all!" he swore in a stifled tone. "I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness. McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't--be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now. "I might 'a' known----," he said aloud, staring at the paper. "Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question. "Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?" "Yes." "She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs." "I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do----" McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening intently. "You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within call." The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed. "I suppose you're--you're curious about this message, Nichols--coming in such a way," said McGuire, after a pause. "To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself." "He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've got to put a stop to it--and to him." "He speaks of coming again Friday night----" "Yes--yes--Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard, "I've got to do what he wants--this time--just this time----" McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control, "Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I--I'll have to tell you more. I--I think--I'll need you--to help me." Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the imminent revelations. "I may say that--this--this 'Hawk' is a--an enemy of mine, Nichols--a bitter enemy--unscrupulous--a man better dead than alive. I--I wish to God you'd shot him last night." "Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully. "I--I've got to do what he wants--this time. I can't have this sort of thing goin' on--with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things. You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?" "I'd be pretty sure of that----" "But she might--any time--if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further." "I think you may trust me." "Yes. I think I can. I've _got_ to trust you now, whether I want to or no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very strange. It is strange. I knew this man--called 'Hawk,' many years ago. I--I thought he was dead, but he's come back." McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which so clearly announced that fact. "He speaks of something I've got--something he's got, Nichols. It's a paper--a--er--a partnership paper we drew up years ago--out West and signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it I----," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds it as a--well--not exactly as a threat--but as a kind of menace to my happiness and Peggy's." "I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short." "Exactly--er--blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars--in New York. I refused him--there's no end to blackmail once you yield--and I came down here--but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him." "If you were sure he had it with him----" "That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere. I've got to get this money for him--from New York--I haven't got it in the house--before Friday night----" "But blackmail----!" "I've got to, Nichols--this time. I've got to." "I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly. "But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire, almost whining. "This is no ordinary case--no ordinary blackmail. I've got to be quick. I'm going to get the money--I'm going to get you to go to New York and get it." "Me!" "Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you--he'll give you the money and you can come back to-morrow." "But to-night----" "He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I won't be bothered to-night. I'll shut the house tight and put some of the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot." "But Friday----Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five thousand dollars and risk----" "No, I won't. _You_ will," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily. "Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him." McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands upon his shoulders. "You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can trust--but Stryker. And Stryker--well--I'd have to tell Stryker. _You_ know already. Don't say you refuse. It's--it's a proof of my confidence. You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me--well worth your while." Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was great and pity won. "Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no responsibility----" "That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief. "You'll just take that money out--then come away----" "And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper--no receipt----?" "No--just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so. In the meanwhile----" The old man paused, a crafty look in his eyes, "In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this situation." "Meaning--precisely what?" asked Peter keenly. McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window. "That needn't be your affair." "It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of----" "There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle. We'll just cross this bridge first. I--I won't ask you to do anything a--a gentleman shouldn't." "Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough." McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's. "You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?" "Yes. I'll keep silent." "Nothing to Sheldon?" "No." "And you'll see this--this niece of the housekeeper's?" "Yes." The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair. "Now go, Nichols--and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come back here and I'll give you a letter and a check." Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at the keyhole. CHAPTER IX SHAD IS UNPLEASANT Peter returned from New York on Thursday night, having accomplished his curious mission. He had first intercepted Beth on her way to the kitchen and sworn her to secrecy, advising her to say nothing to Mrs. Bergen about the events of the previous night. And she had agreed to respect his wishes. On the way to New York he had sat in the rumble of the low red runabout, Miss Peggy McGuire at the wheel, driving the fashionable Freddy. Miss McGuire after having yielded, the night before, to the musical predilections of Miss Delaplane, had apparently reconsidered Peter's social status and had waved him to the seat in the rear with a mere gesture and without apologies. And Peter, biting back a grin and touching his hat, had obeyed. The familiarities tolerable in such a wilderness as Black Rock could not of course be considered in the halls of the fashionable hotel where Miss Peggy lived in New York, and where by dint of great care and exclusiveness she had caught a hold of the fringe of society. But Peter sat up very straight, trying not to hear what was said in front. If he could only have worn his Colonel's uniform and decorations, or his Grand Ducal coronet, and have folded his arms, the irony would have been perfection. He had gone to Sheldon, Senior, in the morning and in return for McGuire's check had been given cash in the shape of ten virginal five hundred dollar bills. This money had been put into an envelope and was now folded carefully in Peter's inside pocket. Sheldon, Senior, to be sure, had asked questions, but with a good grace Peter had evaded him. Dick Sheldon was out of town, so Peter put in the remaining period before his train-time in a music store where he spent all the money that remained of his salary, on books, a few for the piano but most of them for Beth. Peter had wasted, as he had thought, two perfectly good years in trying to learn to sing. But those two years were not going to be wasted now--for Beth was to be his mouthpiece. He knew the beginnings of a training--how to give her the advantage of the instruction he had received from one of the best teachers in Milan. He was lucky enough to find books on the Italian method of voice production and on the way back to McGuire's, armed with these, he stopped off at the Bergen house in Black Rock village and returned Beth's call. There he found Shad Wells, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe in the portico, and looking like a thundercloud. In response to Peter's query, he moved his right shoulder half an inch in the direction of the door, and then spat in the geranium bed. So Peter knocked at the door, softly at first, then loudly, when Beth emerged, her sleeves rolled to her shoulders and her arms covered with soapsuds. "Why, Shad," she said witheringly, after she had greeted Peter, "you might have let me know! Come in, Mr. Nichols. Excuse my appearance. Wash-day," she explained, as he followed her into the dark interior. "I can't stop," said the visitor, "I just came to bring these books----" "For _me_!" she exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her arms on her apron. "I got them in New York----" She pulled up the shade at the side, letting in the sunlight, an act permissible in the parlors of Black Rock only on state occasions, for the sunlight (as every one knew) was not kind to plush-covered furniture. "For _me_!" Beth repeated softly. "I didn't think you meant it." "_Tone production--Exercises_," explained Peter, "and here's one on _The Lives of the Great Composers_. I thought you might be interested in reading it." "Oh, yes. I am--I will be. Thank you ever so much----" "Of course you can't do much by yourself just yet--not without a piano--to get the pitch--the key--but I've brought a tuning fork and----" "But I've got the harmonium----," Beth broke in excitedly. "It's a little out of tune, but----" "The harmonium!" asked the bewildered Peter. "What's that?" Beth proudly indicated a piece of furniture made of curly walnut which stood in the corner of the room. There were several books on the top of it--_Gospel Tunes_--_Moody and Sankey_, a Methodist Episcopal hymn book, and a glass case containing wax flowers. "We play it Sundays----," said Beth, "but it ought to help----" "You play----!" he said in surprise. "Aunt Tillie and I--oh, just hymns----." She sat, while Peter watched, began pumping vigorously with her feet and presently the instrument emitted a doleful sound. "It has notes anyhow," said Beth with a laugh. "Splendid!" said Peter. "And when I've told you what to do you can practice here. You'll come soon?" She nodded. "When?" "To-morrow--sometime?" And then, "What's the matter with Wells?" he asked. She frowned. "He just asked me to marry him. It's the twenty-seventh time." "Oh----" "I can't be botherin' with Shad--not on wash-day--or any other day," she added as though in an afterthought. Peter laughed. He was quite sure that nobody would ever make her do anything she didn't want to do. "He knows I was at the Cabin yesterday," she said in a low voice. "He was watchin'." Peter was silent a moment, glancing at the books he had just brought her. "Of course if he has any claim on you, perhaps----," he began, when she broke in. "Claim! He hasn't," she gasped. "I'll do as I please. And he'd better quit pesterin' me or I'll----" "What?" She laughed. "I'll put him through the clothes-wringer." Peter grinned. "He almost looks as though you'd done that already." And as she followed him to the door, "I thought I ought to tell you about Shad. When he gets ugly--he's ugly an' no mistake." "Do you still think he'll--er--swallow me at one gobble?" he asked. She stared at him a moment and then laughed with a full throat. "I hope he don't--at least not 'til I've had my singin' lessons." "I think I can promise you that," said Peter. She followed him out to the porch, where they looked about for Shad. He had disappeared. And in the "Lizzie," which had been panting by the side of the road, Peter was conducted by the soiled young man at the wheel to Black Rock House. Nothing unusual had happened in his absence, nor had any other message or warning been posted, for Stryker, released for this duty, had searched all the morning and found nothing. "Hawk" was waiting, biding his hour. Curiously enough, an astonishing calm seemed to have fallen over the person of Jonathan K. McGuire. When Peter arrived he found his employer seated on the portico in a wicker chair, smoking his after-supper cigar. True, the day guards were posted near by and Stryker hovered as was his wont, but the change in his employer's demeanor was so apparent that Peter wondered how such a stolid-looking creature could ever have lost his self-control. It was difficult to understand this metamorphosis unless it could be that, having come to a decision and aware of the prospect of immunity, if only a temporary one, McGuire had settled down to make the best of a bad job and await with stoicism whatever the future was to bring. This was Peter's first impression, nothing else suggesting itself, but when he followed the old man up to his room and gave him the money he had brought he noted the deeply etched lines at nostril and jaw and felt rather than saw the meaning of them--that Jonathan McGuire was in the grip of some deep and sinister resolution. There was a quality of desperation in his calmness, a studied indifference to the dangers which the night before last had seemed so appalling. He put the money in the safe, carefully locked the combination and then turned into the room again. "Thanks, Nichols," he said. "You'd better have some supper and get to bed to-night. I don't think you'll be needed." And then, as Peter's look showed his surprise, "I know my man better than you do. To-morrow night we shall see." He closed his lips into a thin line, shot out his jaw and lowered his brows unpleasantly. Courage of a sort had come back to him, the courage of the animal at bay, which fights against the inevitable. To Peter the time seemed propitious to state the need for the observation towers and he explained in detail his projects. But McGuire listened and when Peter had finished speaking merely shook his head. "What you say is quite true. The towers must be built. I've thought so for a long time. In a few days we will speak of that again--_after to-morrow night_," he finished significantly. "As you please," said Peter, "but every day lost now may----" "We'll gain these days later," he broke in abruptly. "I want you to stay around here now." On Friday morning he insisted on having Peter show him the tree where the placard had been discovered, and Peter, having taken lunch with him, led him down to the big sugar maple, off the path to the cabin. Peter saw that he scanned the woods narrowly and walked with a hand in his waist-band, which Peter knew held an Army Colt revolver, but the whine was gone from his voice, the trembling from his hands. He walked around the maple with Peter, regarding it with a sort of morbid abstraction and then himself led the way to the path and to the house. Why he wanted to look at the tree was more than Peter could understand, for it was Peter, and not he, who was to keep this costly assignation. "You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico, "you've agreed to go--to-night--at eleven." "I wish you'd let me meet him--without the money." "No--no. I've made up my mind----," gasped McGuire with a touch of his old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan--no change at all." "Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away." "It won't matter, Nichols. I--I've got a lot more----" "But the principle----" protested Peter. "To H---- with the principle," growled the old man. Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees. He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey. He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she had been running. "Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly. "No." "Oh!" she gasped. "I was afraid he'd get here before me. I took the short cut through the woods." "What's the matter?" "He said he--he was going to break you to bits----" "To bits! Me? Why?" "Because he--he says I oughtn't to come here----" "Oh, I see," he muttered, and then, with a grin, "and what do _you_ think about it, Beth?" "I'll do what I please," she said. "So long as I think it's all right. What business has he got to stop me!" Peter laughed. "Don't let's bother then. Did you bring your books?" She hadn't brought them. She had come in such a hurry. "But aren't you afraid--when he comes?" she asked. "I don't know," said Peter. "Do you think I ought to be?" "Well, Shad's--he's what they call a Hellion around here." "What's a--er--Hellion?" "A--a scrapper." "Oh, a fighting man?" "Yes." Peter sat down at the piano and struck loudly some strident discords in the bass. "Like this!" he laughed. "Isn't it ugly, Beth--that's what fighting is--I had it day and night for years. If Shad had been in the war he wouldn't ever want to fight again." "Were you in the war?" asked Beth in amazement. "Of course. Where would I have been?" And before she could reply he had swept into the rumbling bass of the "Revolutionary Étude." She sank into a chair and sat silent, listening, at first watching the door, and then as the soul of the artist within her awoke she forgot everything but the music. There was a long silence at the end when Peter paused, and then he heard her voice, tense, suppressed. "I could see it--you made me see it!" she gasped, almost in a whisper. "War--revolution--the people--angry--mumbling--crowding, pushing ... a crowd with guns and sticks howling at a gate ... and then a man trying to speak to them--appealing----" Peter turned quickly at the words and faced her. Her eyes were like stars, her soul rapt in the vision his music had painted. Peter had lived that scene again and again, but how could Beth know unless he had made her see it? There was something strange--uncanny--in Beth's vision of the great drama of Peter's life. And yet she had seen. Even now her spirit was afar. "And what happened to the man who was appealing to them?" he asked soberly. She closed her eyes, then opened them toward him, shaking her head. "I--I don't know--it's all gone now." "But you saw what I played. That is what happened." "What do you mean?" She questioned, startled in her turn. Peter shrugged himself into the present moment. "Nothing. It's just--revolution. War. War is like that, Beth," he went on quietly after a moment. "Like the motif in the bass--there is no end--the threat of it never stops--day or night. Only hell could be like it." Beth slowly came out of her dream. "You fought?" she asked. "Oh, yes." Another silence. "I--I think I understand now why you're not afraid." "But I _am_ afraid, Beth," he said with a smile. "I was always afraid in the war. Because Death is always waiting just around the corner. Nobody who has been in the war wants ever to fight again." He turned to the piano. "They all want happiness, Beth. Peace. This!" he finished, and his roving fingers played softly the Tschaikowsky "Reverie." When he had finished he turned to her, smiling. "What vision do you see in that, Beth?" She started as though from a dream. "Oh, happiness--and sadness, too." "Yes," said Peter soberly. "No one knows what it is to be happy unless one has been sad." "That's true, isn't it?" she muttered, looking at him in wonder. "I never knew what unhappiness was for--but I guess that's it." He caught the minor note in her voice and smiled. "Come now," he said, "we'll have our first lesson." "Without the books?" "Yes. We'll try breathing." "Breathing?" "Yes--from the diaphragm." And as she looked bewildered, "From the stomach--not from the chest--breathe deeply and say 'Ah.'" She obeyed him and did it naturally, as though she had never breathed in any other way. "Fine," he cried and touched a note on the piano. "Now sing it. Throw it forward. Softly first, then louder----" It was while she was carrying out this instruction that a shadow appeared on the doorsill, followed in a moment by the figure of Shad Wells. Beth's "Ah" ceased suddenly. The visitor stood outside, his hands on his hips, in silent rage. Peter merely glanced at him over his shoulder. "How are you, Wells?" he said politely. "Won't you come in? We've having a singing lesson." Shad did not move or speak as Peter went on, "Take the chair by the door, old man. The cigarettes are on the table. Now, Beth----" But Beth remained as she was, uneasily regarding the intruder, for she knew that Shad was there for no good purpose. Peter caught her look and turned toward the door, deliberately ignoring the man's threatening demeanor. "We won't be long," he began coolly, "not over half an hour----" "No, I know ye won't," growled Shad. And then to the girl, "Beth, come out o' there!" If Shad's appearance had caused Beth any uncertainty, she found her spirit now, for her eyes flashed and her mouth closed in a hard line. "Who are you to say where I come or go?" she said evenly. But Shad stood his ground. "If you don't know enough to know what's what I'm here to show you." "Oh, I say----," said Peter coolly. "You can say what you like, Mister. And I've got somethin' to say to you when this lady goes." "Oh,----" and then quietly to Beth, "Perhaps you'd better go. Bring the books to-morrow--at the same time." But Beth hadn't moved, and only looked at Peter appealingly. So Peter spoke. "This man is impolite, not to say disagreeable to you. Has he any right to speak to you like this?" "No," said Beth uneasily, "but I don't want any trouble." Peter walked to the door and faced Shad outside. "There won't be any trouble unless Wells makes it." And then, as if a new thought had come to him, he said more cheerfully, "Perhaps he doesn't quite understand----" "Oh, I understand, all right. Are you goin', Beth?" She glanced at Peter, who nodded toward the path, and she came between them. "Go on back, Shad," she said. "No." "Do you mean it? If you do I'm through with you. You understand?" Peter took the girl by the arm and led her gently away. "Just wait a minute, Wells," he flung over his shoulder at the man, "I'll be back in a second." The careless tone rather bewildered the woodsman, who had expected to find either fear or anger. The forester-piano-player showed neither--only careless ease and a coolness which could only be because he didn't know what was coming to him. "D--n him! I'll fix him!" muttered Shad, quivering with rage. But Peter having fortified himself with a cigarette was now returning. Wells advanced into an open space where there was plenty of room to swing his elbows and waited. "Now, Wells," said Peter alertly, "you wanted to see me?" "Yes, I did, ye stuck-up piano-playin', psalm-singin' ---- ---- ---- ----." And suiting the action to the word leaped for Peter, both fists flying. The rugged and uncultured often mistake politeness for effeminacy, sensibility for weakness. Shad was a rough and tumble artist of a high proficiency, and he had a reputation for strength and combativeness. He was going to make short work of this job. But Peter had learned his boxing with his cricket. Also he had practiced the _Savate_ and was familiar with _jiu jitsu_--but he didn't need either of them. Wells rushed twice but Peter was not where he rushed. The only damage he had done was to tear out the sleeve of Peter's shirt. "Stand up an' fight like a man," growled Shad. "There's no hurry," said Peter, calmly studying Shad's methods. "Oh, _ain't_ there!" This bull-like rush Peter stopped with a neat uppercut, straightening Shad's head which came up with a disfigured nose and before he could throw down his guard, Peter landed hard on his midriff. Shad winced but shot out a blow which grazed Peter's cheek. Then Peter countered on Shad's injured nose. Shad's eyes were now regarding Peter in astonishment. But in a moment only one of them was, for Peter closed the other. "We'd better stop now," gasped Peter, "and talk this over." "No, you ---- ---- ----," roared Shad, for he suspected that somewhere in the bushes Beth was watching. Peter lost what remained of his shirt in the next rush and sprained a thumb. It didn't do to fight Shad "rough and tumble." But he got away at last and stood his man off, avoiding the blind rushes and landing almost at will. "Had enough?" he asked again, as politely as ever. "No," gulped the other. So Peter sprang in and struck with all the force of his uninjured hand on the woodsman's jaw, and then Shad went down and lay quiet. It had been ridiculously easy from the first and Peter felt some pity for Shad and not a little contempt for himself. But he took the precaution of bending over the man and extracting the revolver that he found in Shad's hip pocket. As he straightened and turned he saw Beth standing in the path regarding him. "Beth!" he exclaimed with a glance at Shad. "You saw?" "Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "It was horrible." "I tried to avoid it," he protested. "Yes, I know. It was his own fault. Is he badly hurt?" "No, I think not. But you'd better go." "Why?" "It will only make matters worse if he sees you." She understood, turned and vanished obediently. Then Peter went to the house, got a basin and, fetching some water from the creek, played the Samaritan. In a while Shad gasped painfully and sat up, looking at the victor. "Sorry," said Peter, "but you _would_ have it." Shad blinked his uninjured eye and rose, feeling at his hip. "I took your revolver," said Peter calmly. "Give it here." "A chap with a bad temper has no business carrying one," said Peter sternly. "Oh----." The man managed to get to his feet. "I'm sorry, Shad," said Peter again, and held out his hand. "Let's be friends." Shad looked at the hand sullenly for a moment. "I'll fix _you_, Mister. I'll fix you yet," he muttered, then turned and walked away. If Peter had made one friend he had also made an enemy. The incident with Shad Wells was unfortunate, but Peter didn't see how it could have been avoided. He was thankful nevertheless for his English schooling, which had saved him from a defeat at the hands of a "roughneck" which could have been, under the circumstances, nothing less than ignominious. For if Shad Wells had succeeded in vanquishing him, all Peter's authority, all his influence with the rest of the men in McGuire's employ would have gone forever, for Shad Wells was not the kind of man upon whom such a victory would have lightly sat. If he had thrashed Peter, Shad and not Peter would have been the boss of Black Rock and Peter's position would have been intolerable. As Peter laved his broken knuckles and bruised cheek, he wondered if, after all, the affair hadn't been for the best. True, he had made an enemy of Shad, but then according to the girl, Shad had already been his enemy. Peter abhorred fighting, as he had told Beth, but, whatever the consequences, he was sure that the air had cleared amazingly. He was aware too that the fact that he had been the champion of Beth's independence definitely stood forth. Whatever the wisdom or the propriety, according to the standards of Black Rock society, of Beth's visits to the Cabin, for the purpose of a musical education or for any other purposes, Peter was aware that he had set the seal of his approval upon them, marked, that any who read might run, upon the visage of Mr. Wells. Peter was still sorry for Shad, but still more sorry for Beth, whose name might be lightly used for her share in the adventure. He made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened, and he felt reasonably certain that Shad Wells would reach a similar decision. He was not at all certain that Beth wouldn't tell everybody what had happened for he was aware by this time that Beth was the custodian of her own destinies and that she would not need the oracles of Black Rock village as censors of her behavior. But when he went up to the house for supper he made his way over the log-jam below the pool and so to the village, stopping for a moment at the Bergen house, where Beth was sitting on the porch reading _The Lives of the Great Composers_. She was so absorbed that she did not see him until he stood at the little swing gate, hat in hand. She greeted him quietly, glancing up at his bruised cheek. "I'm so sorry," she said, "that it was on my account." "I'm not--now that I've done the 'gobbling,'" he said with a grin. And then, "Where's Shad?" "I haven't seen him. I guess he's gone in his hole and pulled it in after him." Peter smiled. "I just stopped by to say that perhaps you'd better say nothing. It would only humiliate him." "I wasn't goin' to--but it served him right----" "And if you think people will talk about your coming to the Cabin, I thought perhaps I ought to give you your lessons here." "Here!" she said, and he didn't miss the note of disappointment in her tone. "If your cousin Shad disapproves, perhaps there are others." She was silent for a moment and then she looked up at him shyly. "If it's just the same to you--I--I'd rather come to the Cabin," she said quietly. "It's like--like a different world--with your playin' an' all----" And then scornfully, "What do I care what they think!" "Of course--I'm delighted. I thought I ought to consult you, that's all. And you'll come to-morrow?" "Yes--of course." He said nothing about the meeting that was to take place that night with the mysterious "Hawk" at the maple tree. He meant to find out, if possible, how Beth could be concerned (if she was concerned) in the fortunes of the mysterious gentleman of the placard, but until he learned something definite he thought it wiser not to take Beth further into his confidence. CHAPTER X "HAWK" Three months ago it would have been difficult for His Highness, Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, to imagine himself in his present situation as sponsor for Beth Cameron. He had been no saint. Saintly attributes were not usually to be found in young men of his class, and Peter's training had been in the larger school of the world as represented in the Continental capitals. He had tasted life under the tutelage of a father who believed that women, bad as well as good, were a necessary part of a gentleman's education, and Peter had learned many things.... Had it not been for his music and his English love of fair play, he would have stood an excellent chance of going to the devil along the precipitous road that had led the Grand Duke Nicholas Petrovitch there. But Peter had discovered that he had a mind, the needs of which were more urgent than those of his love of pleasure. Many women he had known, Parisian, Viennese, Russian--and one, Vera Davydov, a musician, had enchained him until he had discovered that it was her violin and not her soul that had sung to him ... Anastasie Galitzin ... a dancer in Moscow ... and then--the War. In that terrible alembic the spiritual ingredients which made Peter's soul had been stirred until only the essential remained. But that essence was the real Peter--a wholesome young man steeped in idealism slightly tinged with humor. It was idealism that had made him attempt the impossible, humor that had permitted him to survive his failure, for no tragedy except death itself can defy a sense of humor if it's whimsical enough. There was something about the irony of his position in Black Rock which interested him even more than the drama that lay hidden with McGuire's Nemesis in the pine woods. And he couldn't deny the fact that this rustic, this primitive Beth Cameron was as fine a little lady as one might meet anywhere in the wide world. She had amused him at first with originality, charmed him with simplicity, amazed him later with talent and now had disarmed him with trust in his integrity. If at any moment the idea had entered Peter's head that here was a wild-flower waiting to be gathered and worn in his hat, she had quickly disabused his mind of that chimera. Curious. He found it as difficult to conceive of making free with Beth as with the person of the Metropolitan of Moscow, or with that of the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad. She had her dignity. It was undeniable. He imagined the surprise in her large blue eyes and the torrent of ridicule of which her tongue could be capable. He had felt the sting of its humor at their first meeting. He had no wish to test it again. And now, after a few days of acquaintanceship, he found himself Beth's champion, the victor over the "Hellion" triplet, and the guardian of her good repute. He found, strangely enough, the responsibility strengthening his good resolves toward Beth and adding another tie to those of sympathy and admiration. The situation, while not altogether of his making, was not without its attractions. He had given Beth her chance to withdraw from the arrangement and she had persisted in the plan to come to the Cabin. Very well. It was his cabin. She should come and he would teach her to sing. But he knew that Peter Nichols was throwing temptation in the way of Peter Nicholaevitch. * * * * * McGuire was quiet that night and while they smoked Peter talked at length on the needs of the estate as he saw them. Peter went down to the Cabin and brought up his maps and his plans for the fire towers. McGuire nodded or assented in monosyllables, but Peter was sure that he heard little and saw less, for at intervals he glanced at the clock, or at his watch, and Peter knew that his obsession had returned. Outside, somewhere in the woods, "Hawk" was approaching to keep his tryst and McGuire could think of nothing else. This preoccupation was marked by a frowning thatch of brow and a sullen glare at vacancy which gave no evidence of the fears that had inspired him, but indicated a mind made up in desperation to carry out his plans, through Peter, whatever happened later. Only the present concerned him. But underneath his outward appearance of calm, Peter was aware of an intense alertness, for from time to time his eyes glowed suddenly and the muscles worked in his cheeks as he clamped his jaws shut and held them so. As the clock struck ten McGuire got to his feet and walked to the safe, which he opened carefully and took out the money that Peter had brought. Then he went to a closet and took out an electric torch which he tested and then put upon the table. "You're armed, Nichols?" he asked. Peter nodded. "But of course there's no reason why your mysterious visitor should take a pot at me," he said. And then, curiously, "Do you think so, Mr. McGuire?" "Oh, no," said the other quickly. "You have no interest in this affair. You're my messenger, that's all. But I want you to follow my instructions carefully. I've trusted you this far and I've got to go the whole way. This man will say something. You will try to remember word for word what he says to you, and you're to repeat that message to me." "That shouldn't be difficult." McGuire was holding the money in his hand and went on in an abstraction as though weighing words. "I want you to go at once to the maple tree. I want you to go now so that you will be there when this man arrives. You will stand waiting for him and when he comes you will throw the light into his face, so that you can see him when you talk to him, and so that he can count this money and see that the amount is correct. I do not want you to go too close to him nor to permit him to go too close to you--you are merely to hand him this package and throw the light while he counts the money. Then you are to say to him these words, 'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy.'" "'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy,'" murmured Peter in amazement. And then, "But suppose he wants to tell me a lot of things you don't want me to know----" "I'll have to risk that," put in McGuire grimly. "I want you to watch him carefully, Nichols. Are you pretty quick on the draw?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, can you draw your gun and shoot quickly--surely? If you can't, you'd better have your gun in your pocket, keep him covered and at the first sign, shoot through your coat." Peter took out his revolver and examined it quizzically. "I thought you said, Mr. McGuire," he put in coolly, "that I was not to be required to do anything a gentleman couldn't do." "Exactly," said the old man jerkily. "I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that requirement." McGuire threw up his hands wildly. "There you go--up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him, did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he attacks you. That--that's all." "Why should he attack me?" "He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself." "I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing yourself." McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped. "You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do it." McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I--I never asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I--I'm merely making plans to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all. You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded. "Murder is a little out of my line----" "You're not going to fail me----?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "You _can't_," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now. _I_ can't see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one. You promised, Nichols. You promised to go." "Yes. And I'll keep my word--but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off." "Yes--yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a good fellow--and honest. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protect _yourself_, if he tries to start anything." "Have you any reason to believe that he might?" "No. I can't say I have." "All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not responsible if anything goes wrong." "That's understood." Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico. Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he would be returning to the house later. "The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse. "What do you mean?" "Not so skeered-like. He was out here when you went to the Cabin for them plans----" "Out here?" said Peter in amazement. Andy nodded. "He seemed more natural-like,--asked what the countersign was and said mebbe we'd all be goin' back to the mills after a night or so." "Oh, did he? That's good. You're pretty tired of this night work?" "Not so long as it pays good. But what did he mean by changin' the guards?" "He didn't say anything to me about it," said Peter, concealing his surprise. "Oh, didn't he? Well, he took Andy off the privet hedge and sent him down to the clump of pines near the road." "I see," said Peter. "Why?" "You've got me, Mister. If there's trouble to-night, there ain't no one at the back of the house at all. We're one man short." "Who?" "Shad Wells. He ain't showed up." "Ah, I see," muttered Peter. And then, as he lighted a cigarette, "Oh, well, we'll get along somehow. But look sharp, just the same." Peter went down the lawn thoughtfully. From the first he hadn't been any too pleased with this mission. Though Peter was aware that in the realm of big business it masqueraded under other names, blackmail, at the best, was a dirty thing. At the worst--and McGuire's affair with the insistent Hawk seemed to fall into this classification,--it was both sinister and contemptible. To be concerned in these dark doings even as an emissary was hardly in accordance with Peter's notion of his job, and he had acceded to McGuire's request without thinking of possible consequences, more out of pity for his employer in his plight than for any other reason. But he remembered that it usually required a guilty conscience to make blackmail possible and that the man who paid always paid because of something discreditable which he wished to conceal. McGuire's explanations had been thin and Peter knew that the real reason for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to have a hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides, there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night. The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy himself. Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully, searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another cigarette and waited. Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves, but heard only the creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City. The sound carried his mind beyond the pine-belt out into the great world from which he had come, and he thought of many things that might have been instead of this that was--the seething yeast that was Russia, the tearing down of the idols of centuries and the worship of new gods that were no gods at all--not even those of brass or gold--only visions--will-o'-the-wisps.... The madness had shown itself here too. Would the fabric of which the American Ideal was made be strong enough to hold together against the World's new madness? He believed in American institutions. Imperfect though they were, fallible as the human wills which controlled them, they were as near Liberty, Equality, Fraternity as one might yet hope to attain in a form of government this side of the millennium. Peter started up suddenly, for he was sure that he had heard something moving in the underbrush. But after listening intently and hearing nothing more he thought that his ears had deceived him. He flashed his lantern here and there as a guide to Hawk Kennedy but there was no sound. Complete silence had fallen again over the woods. If McGuire's mysterious enemy was approaching he was doing it with the skill of an Indian scout. And it occurred to Peter at this moment that Hawk Kennedy too might have his reasons for wishing to be sure that he was to be fairly dealt with. The placard had indicated the possibility of chicanery on the part of McGuire. "No tricks," Hawk had written. He would make sure that Peter was alone before he showed himself. So Peter flashed his lamp around again, glanced at his watch, which showed that the hour of the appointment had passed, then lighted a third cigarette and sank down on the roots of the tree to wait. There was no other sound. The breeze which had been fitful at best had died and complete silence had fallen. Peter wasn't in the least alarmed. Why should he be? He had come to do this stranger a favor and no one else except McGuire could know of the large sum of money in his possession. The trees were his friends. Peter's thoughts turned back again, as they always did when his mind was at the mercy of his imagination. What was the use of it all? Honor, righteousness, pride, straight living, the ambition to do, to achieve something real by his own efforts--to what end? He knew that he could have been living snugly in London now, married to the Princess Galitzin, drifting with the current in luxury and ease down the years, enjoying those things---- Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here. _Novaya Jezn._ Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight and true--to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been. Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory of that prayer. Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And how long must----? A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and called out, "Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?" Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little louder now and from directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement. "Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him. And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the tree. "Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply. And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him. After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter. Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that he did not speak. "You're from McGuire?" asked the man shortly. "Yes." "Why didn't he come himself?" The voice was gruff, purposely so, Peter thought, but there was something about it vaguely reminiscent. "Answer me. Why didn't he come?" Peter laughed. "He didn't tell me why. Any more than you'd tell me why you've been up this tree." "I'm takin' no chances this trip. I've been watchin'--listenin'," said the other grimly. "Well, what's the answer? And who--who the devil are you?" The bearded visage was thrust closer to Peter's as though in uncertainty, but accustomed as both men now were to the darkness, neither could make out the face of the other. "I'm McGuire's superintendent. He sent me here to meet you--to bring you something----" "Ah--he comes across. Good. Where is it?" "In my pocket," said Peter coolly, "but he told me to tell you first not to forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy." The man recoiled a step. "The blood on the knife," he muttered. And then, "McGuire asked you to say that?" "Yes." "Anything else?" "No. That's all." Another silence and then he demand in a rough tone, "Well, give me the money!" Impolite beggar! What was there about this shadow that suggested to Peter the thought that this whole incident had happened before? That this man belonged to another life that Peter had lived? Peter shrugged off the illusion, fumbled in his pocket and produced the envelope containing the bills. "You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands. "It's not 'phoney'----?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously. "Phoney?" "Fake money----?" "No. I got it in New York myself yesterday." "Oh----." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening intently. And then, abruptly, "I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light." Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said. In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered him from the first moment of the interview. "Five hundreds--eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right. One--two--three--four----" A roar from the darkness and a bullet crashed into the tree behind them.... Another shot! Peter's startled finger relaxed on the button of the torch and they were in darkness. A flash from the trees to the right, the bullet missing Peter by inches. "A trick! By ----!" said Hawk's voice in a fury, "but I'll get _you_ for this." Peter was too quick for him. In the darkness he jumped aside, striking Kennedy with his torch, and then closed with the man, whose shot went wild. They struggled for a moment, each fighting for the possession of the weapon, McGuire's money ground under their feet, but Peter was the younger and the stronger and when he twisted Hawk's wrist the man suddenly relaxed and fell, Peter on his chest. The reason for this collapse was apparent when Peter's hand touched the moisture on Kennedy's shoulder. "Damn you!" Hawk was muttering, as he struggled vainly. Events had followed so rapidly that Peter hadn't had time to think of anything but his own danger. He had acted with the instinct of self-preservation, which was almost quicker than his thought, but as he knew now what had happened he realized that he, too, had been tricked by McGuire and that the murderous volley directed at Hawk Kennedy had come perilously near doing for himself. With the calm which followed the issue of his struggle with Kennedy, came a dull rage at McGuire for placing him in such danger, which only showed his employer's desperate resolve and his indifference to Peter's fate. For Hawk Kennedy had been within his rights in supposing Peter to be concerned in the trick and only the miracle of the expiring torch which had blinded the intruder had saved Peter from the fate intended for Hawk. Peter understood now the meaning of McGuire's explicit instructions and the meaning of the changing of the guards. The old man had hoped to kill his enemy with one shot and save himself the recurrence of his terror. What had become of him now? There was no sound among the bushes or any sign of him. He had slipped away like the poltroon that he was, leaving Peter to his fate. "Damn you!" Hawk muttered again. "What did _you_ want to come meddling for!" The man couldn't be dangerously hurt if he possessed the power of invective and so, having possessed himself of Hawk's automatic, Peter got off his chest and fumbled around for the electric torch. "It won't do you any good to lie there cursing me. Get up, if you're able to." "Got me in the shoulder," muttered the man. "And he might have gotten _me_," said Peter, "which would have been worse." "You mean--you didn't--_know_," groaned Hawk, getting up into a sitting posture. "No. I didn't," replied Peter. He had found the torch now and was flashing it around on the ground while he picked up the scattered money. "I'll fix him for this," groaned the stranger. Peter glanced at him. "His men will be down here in a moment. You'd better be getting up." "I'm not afraid. They can't do anything to _me_. They'd better leave me alone. McGuire don't want me to talk. But I'll squeal if they bother me." Peter was aware that the man was watching him as he picked up the bills and heard him ask haltingly, "What are you--going to do--with that money?" "My orders were to give it to you. Don't you want it?" Peter turned and for the first time flashed the lamp full in the injured man's face. Even then Peter didn't recognize him, but he saw Hawk Kennedy's eyes open wide as he stared at Peter. "Who----?" gasped the man. And then, "_You_ here! '_Cré nom!_ It's Pete, the waiter!" Peter started back in astonishment. "Jim Coast!" he said. Hawk Kennedy chuckled and scrambled to his feet, halfway between a laugh and a groan. "Well, I'm damned!" Peter was still staring at him, the recovered bills loose in his hand. Jim Coast thrust out an arm for them. "The money," he demanded. "The money, Pete." Without a word Peter handed it to him. It was none of his. Coast counted the bills, the blood dripping from his fingers and soiling them, but he wiped them off with a dirty handkerchief and put them away into his pocket. Blood money, Peter thought, and rightly named. "And now, _mon gars_, if it's all the same to you, I'd like you to take me to some place where we can tie up this hole in my shoulder." This was like Coast's impudence. He had regained his composure again and, in spite of the pain he was suffering, had become his proper self, the same Jim Coast who had bunked with Peter on the _Bermudian_, full of smirking assertiveness and sinister suggestion. Peter was too full of astonishment to make any comment, for it was difficult to reconcile the thought of Jim Coast with Hawk Kennedy, and yet there he was, the terror of Black Rock House revealed. "Well, Pete," he growled, "goin' to be starin' at me all night?" "You'd better be off," said Peter briefly. "Why?" "They'll be here in a minute. You've got your money." "Let 'em come. They'll have to take me to McGuire----" "Or the lock-up at Egg Harbor----" "All right. I'll go. But when I open my mouth to speak, McGuire will wish that Hell would open for him." And then, "See here, Pete, do you know anything of what's between me and McGuire?" "No--except that he fears you." "Very well. If you're workin' for him you'll steer these guys away from me. I mean it. Now think quick." Peter did. Angry as he was at McGuire, he knew that Jim Coast meant what he said and that he would make trouble. Also Peter's curiosity knew no subsidence. "You go to my cabin. It's hidden in the woods down this path at the right----" "That's where you live, is it?" "Yes. You'll find water there and a towel on the washstand. I'll be there to help you when I sheer these men off." Coast walked a few steps and then turned quickly. "No funny business, Pete." "No. You can clear out if you like. I don't care. I only thought if you were badly hurt----" "Oh, all right. Thanks." Peter watched the dim silhouette merge into the shadows and disappear. Then flashed his light here and there that the men who must be approaching now might be guided to him. In a moment they were crashing through the undergrowth, Jesse and Andy in the lead. "What's the shootin'?" queried Jesse Brown breathlessly. "A man in the woods. I'm looking for him," said Peter. "He got away." "Well, don't it beat Hell----" "But it may be a plan to get you men away from the house," said Peter as the thought came to him. "Did you see McGuire?" "McGuire! No. What----?" "All right. You'd better hurry back. See if he's all right. I'll get along----" "Not if you go flashin' _that_ thing. I could a got ye with my rifle as easy as----" "Well, never mind. Get back to the house. I'll poke around here for a while. Hurry!" In some bewilderment they obeyed him and Peter turned his footstep toward the Cabin. CHAPTER XI ANCIENT HISTORY Peter wasn't at all certain that he had done the right thing. One event had followed another with such startling rapidity that there hadn't been time to deliberate. Jim Coast was wounded, how badly Peter didn't know, but the obvious duty was to give him first aid and sanctuary until Peter could get a little clearer light on Coast's possibilities for evil. None of this was Peter's business. He had done what McGuire had asked him to do and had nearly gotten killed for his pains. Two fights already and he had come to Black Rock to find peace! In his anger at McGuire's trick he was now indifferent as to what would happen to the old man. There was no doubt that Jim Coast held all the cards and, unless he died, would continue to hold them. It was evident that McGuire, having failed in accomplishing the murder, had placed himself in a worse position than before, for Coast was not one to relax or to forgive, and if he had gotten his five thousand dollars so easily as this, he would be disposed to make McGuire pay more heavily now. Peter knew nothing of the merits of the controversy, but it seemed obvious that the two principals in the affair were both tarred with the same stick. _Arcades Ambo_. He was beginning to believe that Coast was the more agreeable villain of the two. At least he had made no bones about the fact of his villainy. Peter found Coast stripped to the waist, sitting in a chair by the table, bathing his wounded shoulder. But the hemorrhage had stopped and Peter saw that the bullet had merely grazed the deltoid, leaving a clean wound, which could be successfully treated by first aid devices. So he found his guest a drink of whisky, which put a new heart into him, then tore up a clean linen shirt, strips from which he soaked in iodine and bandaged over the arm and shoulder. Meanwhile Coast was talking. "Well, _mon vieux_, it's a little world, ain't it? To think I'd find _you_, my old bunkie, Pete, the waiter, out here in the wilds, passin' the buck for Mike McGuire! Looks like the hand o' Fate, doesn't it? Superintendent, eh? Some job! Twenty thousand acres--if he's got an inch. An' me thinkin' all the while you'd be slingin' dishes in a New York chop house!" "I studied forestry in Germany once," said Peter with a smile, as he wound the bandage. "Right y'are! Mebbe you told me. I don't know. Mebbe there's a lot o' things you _didn't_ tell me. Mebbe there's a lot of things I didn't tell _you_. But I ought to 'a' known a globe trotter like you never would 'a' stayed a waiter. A waiter! _Nom de Dieu!_ Remember that (sanguine) steward on the _Bermudian_? Oily, fat little beef-eater with the gold teeth? Tried to make us 'divy' on the tips? But we beat him to it, Pete, when we took French leave. H-m! I'm done with waitin' now, Pete. So are you, I reckon. Gentleman of leisure, _I_ am!" "There you are," said Peter as he finished the bandage, "but you'll have to get this wound dressed somewhere to-morrow." "Right you are. A hospital in Philly will do the trick. And McGuire pays the bill." Jim Coast got up and moved his arm cautiously. "Mighty nice of you, Pete. That's fine. I'll make him pay through the nose for this." And then turning his head and eyeing Peter narrowly, "You say McGuire told you nothin'!" "Nothing. It's none of my affair." The ex-waiter laughed. "He knows his business. Quiet as death, ain't he? He's got a right to be. And scared. He's got a right to be scared too. I'll scare him worse before I'm through with him." He broke off with a laugh and then, "Funny to find you guardin' _him_ against _me_. House all locked--men with guns all over the place. He wanted one of those guys to kill me, didn't he? But I'm too slick for him. No locked doors can keep out what's scarin' Mike McGuire----" He broke off suddenly and held up his empty glass. "Another drink of the whisky, _mon gars_, and I'm yer friend for life." Peter was still curious, so he obeyed and after cleaning up the mess they had made he sank into a chair, studying the worn features of his old companion. He had taken the precaution to pull in the heavy shutter of the window which had been opened and to lock the door. Peter did not relish the idea of a murder committed in this cabin. "Not apt to come now, are they, Pete? Well, let 'em," he answered himself with a shrug. "But they won't if McGuire has his way. Murder is the only thing that will suit McGuire's book. He can't do that--not with witnesses around. Ain't he the slick one, though? I was watchin' for just what happened. That's why I stayed in the tree so long--listenin'. He must of slipped in like a snake. How he did it I don't know. I'm a worse snake than he is but I always rattle before I strike." He laughed again dryly. "I've got _him_ rattled all O. K. Mebbe he'd of shot straighter if he hadn't been. He used to could--dead shot. But I reckon his talents are runnin' different _now_. Millions he has they say, _mon vieux_, millions. And I'll get my share of 'em." Jim Coast smoked for a moment in contented silence. "See here, Pete. I like you. Always did. Straight as a string--you are. You've done me a good turn to-night. You might of put me out--killed me when you had me down----" "I'm no murderer, Jim." "Right. Nor I ain't either. I don't want to hurt a hair of McGuire's head. Every one of 'em is precious as refined gold. I want him to live--to keep on livin' and makin' more money because the more money he's got the more I'll get--see." "Blackmail," said Peter shortly. Coast glanced at him, shrugged and laughed. "Call it that if you like. It's a dirty word, but I'll stand for it, seein' it's you. Blackmail! What's a waiter's tip but blackmail for good service? What's a lawyer's fee from a corporation but money paid by men to keep them out of the jail? What's a breach of promise case? Blackmail--legal blackmail. I'm doin' nothin' less an' nothin' more than a million other men--but I'm not workin' with a lawyer. I'll turn the trick alone. What would you say if I told you that half of every dollar McGuire has got is mine--a full half--to say nothin' of payment for the years I was wanderin' an' grubbin' over the face of the earth, while he was livin' easy. Oh! You're surprised. You'd better be. For that's the God's truth, _mon ami_." "You mean--he--he----" Peter's credulity was strained and he failed to finish his query. "Oh, you don't believe? Well, you needn't. But there's no blackmail when you only take what belongs to you. The money--the money that made his millions was as much mine as his. I'm going to have my share with compound interest for fifteen years--and perhaps a bit more." "You surprise me. But it seems that if there's any justice in your claim, you could establish it legally." Jim Coast laughed again. "There's a quicker--a safer way than that. I'm takin' it." He filled his glass again and went on, leaning far over the table toward Peter. "_Voyons_, Pete. When we came ashore, I made you an offer to play my game. You turned me down. It's not too late to change your mind. The old man trusts you or he wouldn't of sent you out with that money. I may need some help with this business and you're fixed just right to lend me a hand. Throw in with me, do what I want, and I'll see that you're fixed for life." Peter shook his head slowly from side to side. "No, Jim. He pays me well. I'm no traitor." "H-m. Traitor!" he sneered. "_He_ wasn't overparticular about _you_. He might of killed you or _I_ might of, if you hadn't been too damn quick for me. What do you think Mike McGuire cares about _you_?" he laughed bitterly. "Nothing. But that makes no difference. I----" A loud jangle of a bell from the corner and Jim Coast sprang to his feet. "The telephone," explained Peter, indicating the instrument. "That's McGuire now." He rose and moved toward it, but Coast caught him by the arm. "Worried, eh?" he said with a grin. "Wants to know what's happened! All right. Tell him--tell the----." And then, as Peter released himself, "Wait a minute. Tell him you've got me here," laughed Coast, "a prisoner. Tell him I'm talking. Ask for instructions. He'll tell you what to do with me, damn quick," he sneered. Peter waited a moment, thinking, while the bell tinkled again, and then took down the receiver. He was in no mood to listen to McGuire. "Hello--Yes, this is Nichols.... All right, yes. Shot at from the dark--while paying the money. You hit Hawk Kennedy in the shoulder.... Yes, _you_. I'm no fool, McGuire.... He's here--at the Cabin. I've just fixed his shoulder----. All right----. What shall I do with him----? Yes--Yes, he's talking.... Let him go----! Hello! Let him go, you say? Yes----" "Let me get to him----," growled Coast, pushing close to the transmitter. "Hello--Mike McGuire--hello----" "He's gone," said Peter. "'Let him go,'" sneered Coast. "You'd bet he'd let me go." Then he looked at Peter and laughed. "He's scared all right--beat it like a cottontail. Seems a shame to take the money, Pete--a real shame." He laughed uproariously, then sauntered easily over to the table, took another of Peter's cigarettes and sank into the easy chair again. Peter eyed him in silence. He was an unwelcome guest but he hadn't yet gratified Peter's curiosity. "Well, what are you going to do?" asked Peter. "Me?" Coast inhaled Peter's cigarette luxuriously, and smiled. "I'm goin' West, _pronto_--to get my facts straight--all at the expense of the party of the first part. I might stop off at the Grand Cañon first for the view. I need a rest, Pete. I ain't as young as I was--or I mightn't of let you put me out so easy to-night. I'm glad of that, though. Wouldn't like to of done you hurt----" "And then----?" asked Peter steadily. "Then? Oh, I'll beat it down to Bisbee and ask a few questions. I just want to hook up a few things I _don't_ know with the things I _do_ know. I'll travel light but comfortable. Five thousand dollars makes a heap of difference in your point of view--and other people's. I'll be an eastern millionaire lookin' for investments. And what I won't know about Jonathan K. McGuire, alias Mike McGuire--won't be worth knowin'." He broke off and his glance caught the interested expression on the face of his host. "H-m. Curious, ain't you, Pete?" "Yes," said Peter frankly. "I am. Of course it's none of my business, but----" "But you'd like to know, just the same. I get you." He flicked off the ash of his cigarette and picked up his whisky glass. "Well----," he went on, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you--some of it--that is. It won't do any harm for you to know the kind of skunk you're workin' for. There's some of it that nobody on God's earth will ever know but me and Mike McGuire--unless he slips up on one of his payments, and then everybody's goin' to know. _Everybody_--but his daughter first of all." Coast was silent a long moment while he drained the whisky and slowly set the glass down upon the table. The shadows upon his face were unpleasant, darkened perceptibly as they marked the years his thoughts followed, and the lines at his lips and nostrils became more deeply etched in bitterness and ugly resolve. "It was down in the San Luis valley I first met up with Mike McGuire. He was born in Ireland, of poor but honest parents, as the books tell us. He changed his name to 'Jonathan K.' when he made his first 'stake.' That meant he was comin' up in the world--see? Me and Mike worked together up in Colorado, punchin' cattle, harvestin', ranchin' generally. We were 'buddies,' _mon gars_, like you an' me, eatin', sleepin' together as thick as thieves. He had a family somewhere, same as me--the wife had a little money but her old man made him quit--some trouble. After awhile we got tired of workin' for wages, grub staked, and beat it for the mountains. That was back in nineteen one or two, I reckon. We found a vein up above Wagon Wheel Gap. It looked good and we staked out claims and worked it, hardly stoppin' to eat or sleep." Coast stopped with a gasp and a shrug. "Well, the long an' short of that, _mon vieux_, was a year of hard work with only a thousand or so apiece to show for it. It was only a pocket. Hell!" He broke off in disgust and spat into the fireplace. "Don't talk to me about your gold mines. There ain't any such animal. Well, Mike saved his. I spent mine. Faro. You know--an' women. Then I got hurt. I was as good as dead--but I pulled through. I ain't easy to kill. When I came around, I 'chored' for a while, doin' odd jobs where I could get 'em and got a little money together and went to Pueblo. When I struck town I got pretty drunk and busted a faro bank. I never _did_ have any luck when I was sober." "Yes, you've told me about that," said Peter. "So I did--on the _Bermudian_. Well, it was at Pueblo I met up with Mike McGuire, and we beat it down into Arizona where the copper was. Bisbee was only a row of wooden shacks, but we got some backin', bought an outfit and went out prospectin' along the Mexican border. And what with 'greasers' and thievin' redskins it was some job in those days. But we made friends all right enough and found out some of the things we wanted to know. "Now, Pete, if I was to tell you all that went on in that long trail into the Gila Desert and what happened when we got what we went for, you'd know as much as I do. You'd know enough to hold up Mike McGuire yourself if you'd a mind to. This is where the real story stops. What happened in between is my secret and Mike McGuire's. We found the mine we were lookin' for.... That's sure----How we got it you'll never know. But we got it. And here's where the real story begins again. We were miles out in the Gila Desert and if ever there's a Hell on earth, it's there. Sand, rocks, rocks and sand and the sun. It was Hell with the cover off and no mistake! No water within a hundred miles. "Now, this is where the fine Eyetalian hand of Mike McGuire shows itself. We were rich. Any fool with half an eye could see that. The place was lousy--fairly lousy! It was ours----," Coast's brow darkened and his eyes glittered strangely as a darting demon of the past got behind them. "Yes--_ours_. _Sacré bleu!_ Any man who went through what we did deserved it, by G----! We were rich. There was plenty enough for two, but McGuire didn't think so. And here's what he does to me. In the middle of the night while I'm asleep he sneaks away as neat as you please, with the horses and the pack-mules and the water, leavin' me alone with all the money in the world, and a devourin' thirst, more than a hundred miles from nowhere." "Murder," muttered Peter. Coast nodded. "You bet you. Murder. Nothin' less. Oh, he knew what _he_ was about all right. And I saw it quick. Death! That's what it meant. Slow but sure. Hadn't I seen the bones bleaching all along the trail? He left me there to die. He thought I would die. _Dios!_ That thirst!" Coast reached for the pitcher and splashed rather than poured a glass of water which he gulped down avidly. "There was nothin' for it but to try afoot for Tucson, which was due east. Every hour I waited would of made me an hour nearer to bein' a mummy. So I set out through the hot sand, the sun burnin' through me, slowly parchin' my blood. My tongue swelled. I must of gone in circles. Days passed--nights when I lay gaspin' on my back, like a fish out of water, tryin' to suck moisture out of dry air.... Then the red sun again--up over the edge of that furnace, mockin' at me. I was as good as dead and I knew it. Only the mummy of me, parched black, stumbled on, fallin', strugglin' up again, fallin' at last, bitin' at the sand like a mad dog...." "Horrible," muttered Peter. "It was. I reckon I died--the soul of me, or what was left of it. I came to life under the starlight, with a couple of 'greasers' droppin' water on my tongue. They brought me around, but I was out of my head for a week. I couldn't talk the lingo anyhow. I just went with 'em like a child. There wasn't anything else to do. Lucky they didn't kill me. I guess I wasn't worth killin'. We went South. They were makin' for Hermosillo. Revolutionists. They took all my money--about three hundred dollars. But it was worth it. They'd saved my life. But I couldn't go back now, even if I wanted to. I had no money, nor any way of gettin' any." Jim Coast leaned forward, glowering at the rag carpet. "But I--I didn't want to go back just then. The fear of God was in me. I'd looked into Hell." He laughed bitterly. "Then I joined the 'greasers' against Diaz. I've told you about that. And the 'Rurales' cleaned us up all right. A girl saved my life. Instead of shootin' me against a mud wall, they put me to work on a railroad. I was there three years. I escaped at last and reached the coast, where I shipped for South America. It was the only way out, but all the while I was thinkin' of Mike McGuire and the copper mine. You know the rest, Pete--the Argentine deal that might of made me rich an' how it fell through. Don't it beat Hell how the world bites the under dog!" "But why didn't you go back to America and fight your claim with McGuire?" asked Peter, aware of the sinister, missing passage in the story. Coast shot a sharp glance at his questioner. "There were two reasons--one of which you won't know. The other was that I couldn't. I was on the beach an' not too popular. The only ships out of Buenos Aires were for London. That was the easiest way back to America anyhow. So I shipped as a cattle hand. And there you are. I lived easy in London. That's me. Easy come easy go. There it was I wrote a man I knew out in Bisbee--the feller that helped stake us--and he answered me that McGuire was dead, and that the mine was a flivver--too far away to work. You see he must of showed the letter to McGuire, and McGuire told him what to write. That threw me off the track. I forgot him and went to France...." Coast paused while he filled his glass again. "It wasn't until I reached New York that I found out McGuire was alive. It was just a chance while I was plannin' another deal. I took it. I hunted around the brokers' offices where they sell copper stocks. It didn't take me long to find that my mine was the 'Tarantula.' McGuire had developed it with capital from Denver, built a narrow gauge in. Then after a while had sold out his share for more than half a million clear." Peter was studying Coast keenly, thinking hard. But the story held with what he already knew of the man's history. "That's when Mike McGuire tacked the 'Jonathan K.' onto his name," Coast went on. "And that money's mine, the good half of it. Figure it out for yourself. Say five hundred thou, eight per cent, fifteen years--I reckon I could worry along on that even if he wouldn't do better--which he will. "Well, Pete--to shorten up--I found McGuire was here--in New York--and I laid for him. I watched for a while and then one day I got my nerve up and tackled him on the street. You ought to of seen his face when I told him who I was and what I'd come for. We were in the crowd at Broadway and Wall, people all about us. He started the 'high and mighty' stuff for a minute until I crumpled him up with a few facts. I thought he was goin' to have a stroke for a minute, when I made my brace for the five thou--then he turned tail and ran into the crowd pale as death. I lost him then. But it didn't matter. I'd find him again. I knew where his office was--and his hotel. It was dead easy. But he beat it down here. It took me awhile to pick up the trail. But here I am, Pete--here I am--safe in harbor at last." Coast took the bills out of his pocket and slowly counted them again. "And when you come back from the West, what will you do?" asked Peter. "Oh, now you're talkin', Pete. I'm goin' to settle down and live respectable. I like this country around here. I came from Jersey, you know, in the first place. I might build a nice place--keep a few horses and automobiles and enjoy my old age--run over to gay Paree once a year--down to Monte Carlo in the season. Oh, I'd know how to _live_ now. You bet you. I've seen 'em do it--those swells. They won't have anything on me. I'll live like a prince----" "On blackmail----," said Peter. "See here, Pete----!" "I meant it." Peter had risen and faced Coast coolly. "Blackmail! You can't tell me that if you had any legal claim on McGuire you couldn't prove it." "I mightn't be able to----," he shrugged. "What is McGuire frightened about? Not about what he owes you. He could pay that ten times over. It's something else--something that happened out there at the mine that you dare not tell----" "That I _won't_ tell," laughed Coast disagreeably. "That you _dare_ not tell--that McGuire dares not tell. Something that has to do with his strange message about the blood on the knife, and your placard about what you've got holding over him----" "Right you are," sneered the other. "It's dirty money, I tell you--bloody money. I know it. And I know who you are, Jim Coast." Coast started up and thrust the roll deep into his trousers pocket. "You don't know anything," he growled. Peter got up too. His mind had followed Coast's extraordinary story, and so far as it had gone, believed it to be true. Peter wanted to know what had happened out there at the mine in the desert, but more than that he wanted to know how the destinies of this man affected Beth. And so the thought that had been growing in his mind now found quick utterance. "I know this--that you've come back to frighten McGuire, but you've also come back to bring misery and shame to others who've lived long in peace and happiness without you----" "What----?" said Coast incredulously. "I know who you are. You're Ben Cameron," said Peter distinctly. The effect of this statement upon Jim Coast was extraordinary. He started back abruptly, overturning a chair, and fell rather than leaned against the bedpost--his eyes staring from a ghastly face. "What--what did--you say?" he gasped chokingly. "You're Ben Cameron," said Peter again. Coast put the fingers of one hand to his throat and straightened slowly, still staring at Peter. Then uneasily, haltingly, he made a sound in his throat that grew into a dry laugh---- "Me--B-Ben Cameron! That's damn good. Me--Ben Cameron! Say, Pete, whatever put _that_ into your head?" "The way you frightened the old woman at the kitchen door." "Oh!" Coast straightened in relief. "I get you. You've been talkin' to _her_." "Yes. What did you say to her?" "I--I just gave her a message for McGuire. I reckon she gave it to him." "A message?" "Oh, you needn't say you don't know, Pete. It didn't fetch him. So I put up the placard." Peter was now more bewildered than Coast. "Do you deny that you're Ben Cameron?" he asked. Coast pulled himself together and took up his coat. "Deny it? Sure! I'm not--not him--not Ben Cameron--not Ben Cameron. Don't I know who I am?" he shouted. Then he broke off with a violent gesture and took up his cap. "Enough of your damn questions, I say. I've told you what I've told you. You can believe it or not, as you choose. I'm Jim Coast to you or Hawk Kennedy, if you like, but don't you go throwin' any more of your dirty jokes my way. Understand?" Peter couldn't understand but he had had enough of the man. So he pointed toward the door. "Go," he ordered. "I've had enough of you--get out!" Coast walked a few paces toward the door, then paused and turned and held out his hand. "Oh, Hell, Pete. Don't let's you and me quarrel. You gave me a start back there. I'm sorry. Of course, you knew. You been good to me to-night. I'm obliged. I need you in my business. More'n ever." "No," said Peter. "Oh, very well. Suit yourself," said Coast with a shrug. "There's plenty of time. I'll be back in a month or six weeks. Think it over. I've made you a nice offer--real money--to help me a bit. Take it or leave it, as you please. I'll get along without you, but I'd rather have you with me than against me." "I'm neither," said Peter. "I want nothing to do with it." Coast shrugged. "I'm sorry. Well, so long. I've got a horse back in the dunes. I'll take the milk train from Hammonton to Philadelphia. You won't tell, Pete?" "No." "Good-night." Peter didn't even reply. And when the man had gone he opened the door and windows to let in the night air. The room had been defiled by the man's very presence. Ben Cameron? Beth's father? The thing seemed impossible, but every fact in Peter's knowledge pointed toward it. And yet what the meaning of Jim Coast's strange actions at the mention of his name? And what were the facts that Jim Coast _didn't_ tell? What had happened at the mine that was too terrible even to speak about? What was the bond between these two men, which held the successful one in terror, and the other in silence? Something unspeakably vile. A hideous pact---- The telephone bell jangled again. Peter rose and went to it. But he was in no humor to talk to McGuire. "Hello," he growled. "Yes--he's gone. I let him go. You told me to.... Yes, he talked--a long while.... No. He won't be back for a month.... We'll talk that over later.... No. Not to-night. I'm going to bed.... No. Not until to-morrow. I've had about enough of this.... All right. Good-night." And Peter hung up the receiver, undressed and went to bed. It had been rather a full day for Peter. CHAPTER XII CONFESSION In spite of his perplexities, Peter slept soundly and was only awakened by the jangling of the telephone bell. But Peter wanted to do a little thinking before he saw McGuire, and he wanted to ask the housekeeper a few questions, so he told McGuire that he would see him before ten o'clock. The curious part of the telephone conversation was that McGuire made no mention of the shooting. "H-m," said Peter to himself as he hung up, "going to ignore that trifling incident altogether, is he? Well, we'll see about that. It doesn't pay to be too clever, old cock." His pity for McGuire was no more. At the present moment Peter felt nothing for him except an abiding contempt which could hardly be modified by any subsequent revelations. Peter ran down to the creek in his bath robe and took a quick plunge, then returned, shaved and dressed while his coffee boiled, thinking with a fresh mind over the events and problems of the night before. Curiously enough, he found that he considered them more and more in their relation to Beth. Perhaps it was his fear for her happiness that laid stress on the probability that Jim Coast was Ben Cameron, Beth's father. How otherwise could Mrs. Bergen's terror be accounted for? And yet why had Coast been so perturbed at the mere mention of Ben Cameron's name? That was really strange. For a moment the man had stared at Peter as though he were seeing a ghost. If he _were_ Ben Cameron, why shouldn't he have acknowledged the fact? Here was the weak point in the armor of mystery. Peter had to admit that even while Coast was telling his story and the conviction was growing in Peter's mind that this was Beth's father, the very thought of Beth herself seemed to make the relationship grotesque. This Jim Coast, this picturesque blackguard who had told tales on the _Bermudian_ that had brought a flush of shame even to Peter's cheeks--this degenerate, this scheming blackmailer--thief, perhaps murderer, too, the father of Beth! Incredible! The merest contact with such a man must defile, defame her. And yet if this were the fact, Coast would have a father's right to claim her, to drag her down, a prey to his vile tongue and drunken humors as she had once been when a child. Her Aunt Tillie feared this. And Aunt Tillie did not know as Peter now did of the existence of the vile secret that sealed Coast's lips and held McGuire's soul in bondage. Instead of going directly up the lawn to the house Peter went along the edge of the woods to the garage and then up the path, as Coast must have done a few nights before. The housekeeper was in the pantry and there Peter sought her out. He noted the startled look in her eyes at the moment he entered the room and then the line of resolution into which her mouth was immediately drawn. So Peter chose a roundabout way of coming to his subject. "I wanted to talk to you about Beth, Mrs. Bergen," he began cheerfully. She offered him a chair but Peter leaned against the windowsill looking out into the gray morning. He told her what he had discovered about her niece's voice, that he himself had been educated in music and that he thought every opportunity should be given Beth to have her voice trained. He saw that Mrs. Bergen was disarmed for the moment as to the real purpose of his visit and he went on to tell her just what had happened at the Cabin with Shad Wells the day before, and asking her, as Beth's only guardian, for permission to carry out his plan to teach her all that he knew, after which he hoped it would be possible for her to go to New York for more advanced training. Mrs. Bergen listened in wonder, gasping at the tale of Shad Wells's undoing, which Peter asked her to keep in confidence. From Mrs. Bergen's comments he saw that she took little stock in Shad, who had been bothering Beth for two years or more, and that her own love for the girl amounted to a blind adoration which could see no fault in anything that she might do. It was clear that she was delighted with the opportunities Peter offered, for she had always known that Beth sang "prettier than anybody in the world." As to going to the Cabin for the lessons, that was nobody's business but Beth's. She was twenty-two--and able to look out for herself. "I'm an old woman, Mr. Nichols," she concluded timidly, "an' I've seen a lot of trouble, one kind or another, but I ain't often mistaken in my judgments. I know Beth. She ain't nobody's fool. And if she likes you, you ought to be glad of it. If she's willin' to come to your cabin, I'm willin' that she should go there--no matter who don't like it or why. She can look after herself--aye, better than I can look after her." She sighed. And then with some access of spirit, "You're different from most of the folks around here, but I don't see nothin' wrong with you. If you say you want to help Beth, I'm willin' to believe you. But if I thought you meant her any harm----" She broke off and stared at him with her mild eyes under brows meant to be severe. "I hope you don't want to think that, Mrs. Bergen," said Peter gently. "No. I don't want to. Beth don't take up with every Tom, Dick and Harry. And if she likes you, I reckon she knows what's she's about." "I want to help her to make something of herself," said Peter calmly. "And I know I can. Beth is a very unusual girl." "Don't you suppose I know that? She always was. She ain't the same as the rest of us down here. She always wanted to learn. Even now when she's through school, she's always readin'--always." "That's it. She ought to complete her education. That's what I mean. I want to help her to be a great singer. I can do it if you'll let me." "Where's the money comin' from?" sighed Mrs. Bergen. "No need to bother about that, yet. I can give her a beginning, if you approve. After that----" Peter paused a moment and then, "We'll see," he finished. He was somewhat amazed at the length to which his subconscious thought was carrying him, for his spoken words could infer nothing less than his undertaking at his own expense the completion of the girl's education. The housekeeper's exclamation quickly brought him to a recognition of his meaning. "You mean--that _you_----!" she halted and looked at him over her glasses in wonder. "Yes," he said blandly, aware of an irrevocable step. "I do, Mrs. Bergen." "My land!" she exclaimed. And then again as though in echo, "My land!" "That's one of the reasons why I've come here to you to-day," he went on quickly. "I want to help Beth and I want to help _you_. I know that everything isn't going right for you at Black Rock House. I've been drawn more deeply into--into McGuire's affairs than I expected to be and I've learned a great many things that aren't any business of mine. And one of the things I've learned is that your peace of mind and Beth's happiness are threatened by the things that are happening around you." The housekeeper had risen and stood leaning against the dresser, immediately on her guard. "Mrs. Bergen," he went on firmly, "there's no use of trying to evade this issue--because it's here! I know more than you think I do. I'm trying to get at the root of this mystery because of Beth. You told me the other night that Beth's happiness was involved when that stranger came to the kitchen porch----" "No, no," gasped the woman. "Don't ask me. I'll tell you nothin'." "You saw this man--outside the kitchen door in the dark," he insisted. "You talked with him----" "No--no. Don't ask me, Mr. Nichols." "Won't you tell me what he said? I saw him last night--talked with him for an hour----" "_You_--talked--with him!" she gasped in alarm. And then, haltingly, "What did he say to you? What did he do? Is he coming back?" She was becoming more disturbed and nervous, so Peter brought a chair and made her sit in it. "No. He's not coming back--not for a month or more," he replied reassuringly. "But if I'm to help you, I've got to know something more about him, and for Beth's sake you've got to help me." And then quietly, "Mrs. Bergen, was this man who came to the kitchen door, Ben Cameron, Beth's father?" "My God!" said the housekeeper faintly, putting her face in her hands. "Won't you tell me just what happened?" Peter asked. "I--I'm scared, Mr. Nichols," she groaned. "The whole thing has been too much for me--knowin' how scared Mr. McGuire is too. I can't understand, I can't even--think--no more." "Let me do your thinking for you. Tell me what happened the other night, Mrs. Bergen." The woman raised a pallid face, her colorless eyes blinking up at him beseechingly. "Tell me," he whispered. "It can do no possible harm." She glanced pitifully at him once more and then haltingly told her story. "I--I was sittin' in the kitchen there, the night of the supper party--by the door--restin' and tryin' to get cool--when--when a knock come on the door-jamb outside. It sounded queer--the door bein' open--an' my nerves bein' shook sorter with the goin's on here. But I went to the door an' leaned out. There was a man standin' in the shadow----" Mrs. Bergen paused in a renewed difficulty of breathing. "And then----?" Peter urged. "He--he leaned forward toward me an' spoke rough-like. 'You're the cook, ain't you?' he says. I was that scared I--I couldn't say nothin'. An' he went on. 'You tell McGuire to meet me at the end of the lawn to-morrow night.'" "And what did you say?" "Nothin'. I couldn't." "What else did he tell you?" Mrs. Bergen bent her head but went on with an effort. "He says, 'Tell McGuire Ben--Ben Cameron's come back.'" "I see. And you were more frightened than ever?" "Yes. More frightened--terrible. I didn't know what to do. I mumbled somethin'. Then you an' Beth come in----" "And _was_ it Ben Cameron that you saw?" The poor creature raised her gaze to Peter's again. "B-Ben Cameron? Who else could it 'a' been? An' I thought he was dead, Mr. Nichols--years ago." "You didn't recognize him, then?" "I--I don't know. It was all so sudden--like seein' a corpse--speakin' that name." "He wore a short beard?" "Yes. But Ben Cameron was smooth shaved." "Did Ben Cameron have any distinguishing mark--anything you could remember him by?" "Yes. Ben Cameron's little finger of his left hand was missin'----. But of course, Mr. Nichols, I couldn't see nothin' in the dark." "No, of course," said Peter with a gasp of relief. "But his voice----?" "It was gruff--hoarse--whisperin'-like." "Was the Ben Cameron you knew, your brother-in-law--was he tall?" She hesitated, her brows puckering. "That's what bothered me some. Beth's father wasn't over tall----" "I see," Peter broke in eagerly, "and this man was tall--about my size--with a hook nose--black eyes and----" "Oh, I--I couldn't see his face," she muttered helplessly. "The night was too dark." "But you wouldn't swear it was Ben Cameron?" She looked up at him in a new bewilderment. "But who else could it 'a' been--sayin' that name--givin' that message?" Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Queer, isn't it? I don't wonder that you were alarmed--especially for Beth, knowing the kind of man he was." "It's terrible, Mr. Nichols. A man like Ben Cameron never gets made over. He's bad clear through. If you only knew----" Mrs. Bergen's pale eyes seemed to be looking back into the past. "He means no good to Beth--that's what frightens me. He could take her away from me. She's his daughter----" "Well--don't worry," said Peter at last. "We'll find a way to protect you." And then, "Of course you didn't take that message to McGuire?" he asked. "Why, no--Mr. Nichols. I couldn't. I'd 'a' died first. But what does it all mean? _Him_ bein' scared of Ben Cameron, too. I can't make it out--though I've thought and thought until I couldn't think no more." She was on the point of tears now, so Peter soothed her gently. "Leave this to me, Mrs. Bergen." And then, "You haven't said anything of this to any one?" "Not a soul--I--I was hopin' it might 'a' been just a dream." Peter was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window and thinking deeply. "No. It wasn't a dream," he said quietly at last. "You saw a man by the kitchen door, and he gave you the message about Ben Cameron, _but the man you saw wasn't Ben Cameron_, Mrs. Bergen, because, unless I'm very much mistaken, Ben Cameron is dead----" "How do you----?" "He didn't die when you thought he did, Mrs. Bergen--but later. I can't tell you how. It's only a guess. But I'm beginning to see a light in this affair--and I'm going to follow it until I find the truth. Good-by. Don't worry." And Peter, with a last pat on the woman's shoulder and an encouraging smile, went out of the door and into the house. Eagerly Peter's imagination was trying to fill the gap in Jim Coast's story, and his mind, now intent upon the solution of the mystery, groped before him up the stair. And what it saw was the burning Gila Desert ... the mine among the rocks--"lousy" with outcroppings of ore ... "Mike" McGuire and "Hawk" Kennedy, devious in their ways, partners in a vile conspiracy.... But Peter's demeanor was careless when Stryker admitted him to McGuire's room and his greeting in reply to McGuire's was casual enough to put his employer off his guard. After a moment's hesitation McGuire sent the valet out and went himself and closed and locked the door. Peter refused his cigar, lighting one of his own cigarettes, and sank into the chair his host indicated. After the first words Peter knew that his surmise had been correct and that his employer meant to deny all share in the shooting of the night before. "Well," began the old man, with a glance at the door, "what did he say?" Peter shook his head judicially. He had already decided on the direction which this conversation must take. "No. It won't do, Mr. McGuire," he said calmly. "What do you mean?" "Merely that before we talk of what Hawk Kennedy said to me, we'll discuss your reasons for unnecessarily putting my life in danger----" "This shooting you've spoken of----" "This attempted _murder_!" "You're dreaming." Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn't hear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep into his employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with. I know too much of your affairs--more than you think I do----" "He talked----?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him. "One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Your arrangements were cleverly made--changing the guards--your instructions to me--the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me if you could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot that your hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out in Arizona--Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean." McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid. "You know----?" "Yes. More than I wanted to know--more than I would ever have known if you'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot, twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneaked away like the coward that you are----" "D----n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair. "Leaving me to the mercies of your ancient enemy in the dark--who thought _me_ your accomplice. You can hardly blame him under the circumstances. But I got the best of him--luckily for me, and disarmed him. If you had remained a few moments longer you might have taken part in our very interesting conversation. Do you still deny all this?" McGuire, stifled with his fear and fury, was incapable of a reply. "Very good. So long as we understand each other thus far, perhaps you will permit me to go on. As you know, I came to you in good faith. I wanted to help you in any way that a gentleman could do. Last night you tricked me, and put my life in danger. If you had killed Kennedy everything would have been all right for _you_. And I would have been accused of the killing. If _I_ had been killed no harm would have been done at all. That was your idea. It was a clever little scheme. Pity it didn't work out." McGuire's faltering courage was coming back. "Go on!" he muttered desperately. "Thanks," said Peter, "I will. One shot of yours scraped Kennedy's shoulder. He was bleeding badly, so I took him to the Cabin and fixed him up. He was rather grateful. He ought to have been. I gave him a drink too--several drinks. You said he wouldn't talk, but he did." "You _made_ him talk, d----n you," McGuire broke in hoarsely. "No. He volunteered to talk. I may say, he insisted upon it. You see, I happened to have the gentleman's acquaintance----" "You----!" "We met on the steamer coming over when we were escaping from Russia. His name was Jim Coast then. He was a waiter in the dining saloon. So was I. Funny, isn't it?" To McGuire it seemed far from that, for at this revelation his jaw dropped and he stared at Peter as though the entire affair were beyond his comprehension. "You knew him! A waiter, _you_!" "Yes. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. It was either that or starvation. I preferred to wait." "For--for the love of God--go on," growled McGuire. His hands were clutching the chair arm and there was madness in his shifting eyes, so Peter watched him keenly. "I will. He told me how you and he had worked together out in Colorado, up in the San Luis valley, of the gold prospect near Wagon Wheel Gap, of its failure--how you met again in Pueblo and then went down into the copper country--Bisbee, Arizona." Peter had no pity now. He saw McGuire straighten again in his chair, his gaze shifting past Peter from left to right like a trapped animal. His fingers groped along the chair arms, along the table edge, trembling, eager but uncertain. But the sound of Peter's narrative seemed to fascinate--to hypnotize him. "Go on----!" he whispered hoarsely. "Go on!" "You got an outfit and went out into the Gila Desert," continued Peter, painting his picture leisurely, deliberately. "It was horrible--the heat, the sand, the rocks--but you weren't going to fail this time. There was going to be something at the end of this terrible pilgrimage to repay you for all that you suffered, you and Hawk Kennedy. There was no water, but what you carried on your pack-mules--no water within a hundred miles, nothing but sand and rocks and the heat. No chance at all for a man, alone without a horse, in that desert. You saw the bones of men and animals bleaching along the trail. That was the death that awaited any man----" "You lie!" Peter sprang for the tortured man as McGuire's fingers closed on something in the open drawer of the table, but Peter twisted the weapon quickly out of his hand and threw it in the corner of the room. "You fool," he whispered quickly as he pinioned McGuire in his chair, "do you want to add another murder to what's on your conscience?" But McGuire had already ceased to resist him. Peter hadn't been too gentle with him. The man had collapsed. A glance at his face showed his condition. So Peter poured out a glass of whisky and water which he poured between his employer's gaping lips. Then he waited, watching the old man. He seemed really old now to Peter, a hundred at least, for his sagging facial muscles seemed to reveal the lines of every event in his life--an old man, though scarcely sixty, yet broken and helpless. He came around slowly, his heavy gaze slowly seeking Peter's. "What--what are you going to do?" he managed at last. "Nothing. I'm no blackmailer." And then, playing his high card, "I've heard what Hawk said about Ben Cameron," said Peter. "Now tell me the truth." At the sound of the name McGuire started and then his eyes closed for a moment. "You know--everything," he muttered. "Yes, _his_ side," Peter lied. "What's yours?" McGuire managed to haul himself upright in his chair, staring up at Peter with bloodshot eyes. "He's lied to you, if he said I done it----," he gasped, relapsing into the vernacular of an earlier day. "It was Hawk. He stabbed him in the back. I never touched him. I never had a thing to do with the killin'. I swear it----" Peter's lips set in a thin line. "So Hawk Kennedy killed Ben Cameron!" he said. "He did. I swear to God----" "And then _you_ cleared out with all the water, leaving Hawk to die. _That_ was murder--cold-blooded murder----" "My God, don't, Nichols!" the old man moaned. "If you only knew----" "Well, then--tell me the truth." Their glances met. Peter's was compelling. He had, when he chose, an air of command. And there was something else in Peter's look, inflexible as it was, that gave McGuire courage, an unalterable honesty which had been so far tried and not found wanting. "You know--already," he stammered. "Tell me your story," said Peter bluntly. There was a long moment of hesitation, and then, "Get me a drink, Nichols. I'll trust you. I've never told it to a living man. I'll tell--I'll tell it all. It may not be as bad as you think." He drank the liquor at a gulp and set the glass down on the table beside him. "This--this thing has been hanging over me for fifteen years, Nichols--fifteen years. It's weighted me down, made an old man of me before my time. Maybe it will help me to tell somebody. It's made me hard--silent, busy with my own affairs, bitter against every man who could hold his head up. I knew it was going to come some day. I knew it. You can't pull anything like that and get away with it forever. I'd made the money for my kids--I never had any fun spending it in my life. I'm a lonely man, Nichols. I always was. No happiness except when I came back to my daughters--to Peggy and my poor Marjorie...." McGuire was silent for a moment and Peter, not taking his gaze from his face, patiently waited. McGuire glanced at him just once and then went on, slipping back from time to time into the speech of a bygone day. "I never knew what his first name was. He was always just 'Hawk' to us boys on the range. Hawk Kennedy was a bad lot. I knew it up there in the San Luis valley but I wasn't no angel from Heaven myself. And he had a way with him. We got on all right together. But when the gold mine up at the Gap petered out he quit me--got beaten up in a fight about a woman. I didn't see him for some years, when he showed up in Pueblo, where I was workin' in a smelter. He was all for goin' South into the copper country. He had some money--busted a faro bank he said, and talked big about the fortune he was goin' to make. Ah, he could talk, when he had something on his mind.... I had some money saved up too and so I quit my job and went with him down to Bisbee, Arizona. I wish to God I never had. I'd gotten pretty well straightened out up in Pueblo, sendin' money East to the wife and all----. But I wanted to be rich. I was forty-five and I had to hurry. But I could do it yet. Maybe this was my chance. That's the way I thought. That's why I happened to listen to Hawk Kennedy and his tales of the copper country. "Well, we got an outfit in Bisbee and set out along the Mexican border. We had a tip that let us out into the desert. It was just a tip, that's all. But it was worth following up. It was about this man Ben Cameron. He'd come into town all alone, get supplies and then go out again next day. He let slip something over the drink one night. That was the tip we were followin' up. We struck his trail all right--askin' questions of greasers and Indians. We knew he'd found somethin' good or he wouldn't have been so quiet about it. "I swear to God, I had no idea of harmin' him. I wanted to find what Ben Cameron had found, stake out near him and get what I could. Maybe Hawk Kennedy had a different idea even then. I don't know. He never said what he was thinkin' about. "We found Ben Cameron. Perched up in a hill of rocks, he was, livin' in the hole he'd dug where he'd staked his claim. But we knew he hadn't taken out any papers. He never thought anybody'd find him out there in that Hell-hole. It was Hell all right. Even now whenever I think of what Hell must be I think of what that gulch looked like. Just rocks and alkali dust and heat. "It all comes back to me. Every little thing that was said and done--every word. Ben Cameron saw us first--and when we came up, he was sittin' on a rock, his rifle acrost his knees, a hairy man, thin, burnt-out, black as a greaser. Hawk Kennedy passed the time of day, but Ben Cameron only cursed at him and waved us off. 'Get the Hell out of here,' he says--ugly. But we only laughed at him--for didn't we both see the kind of an egg Ben Cameron was settin' on? "'Don't be pokin' jokes at the Gila Desert, my little man,' say Hawk, polite as you please. 'It's Hell that's here and here it will remain.' And then we said we were short of water--which we were not--and had he any to spare? But he waved us on with his rifle, never sayin' a word. So we moved down the gulch a quarter of a mile and went into camp. There was ore here, too, but nothin' like what Ben Cameron had. "Hawk was quiet that night--creepin' about among the rocks, but he didn't say what was on his mind. In the mornin' he started off to talk to Ben Cameron an' I went with him. The man was still sittin' on his rock, with the rifle over his knees--been there all night, I reckon. But he let us come to hailin' distance. "'Nice claim you got there, pardner,' says Hawk. "'Is it?' says he. "'Ain't you afraid of rubbin' some o' that verdigris off onto your pants,' says Hawk. "'They're my pants,' says Cameron. 'You ain't here for any good. Get out!' And he brings his rifle to his hip. We saw he was scared all right, maybe not so much at what we'd do to him as at sharin' what he'd found. "'The Gila Desert ain't _all_ yours, is it, pardner? Or maybe you got a mortgage on the earth!' says Hawk, very polite. 'You ain't got no objection to our stakin' alongside of you, have you? Come along, now. Let's be neighbors. We see what you've got. That's all right. We'll take your leavin's. We've got a right to them.' "And so after a while of palaverin' with him, he lets us come up and look over his claim. It didn't take any eye at all to see what he'd got. He wasn't much of a man--Ben Cameron--weak-eyed, rum-dum--poor too. You could see that by his outfit--worse off than we were. Hawk told him we had a lot of friends with money--big money in the East. Maybe we could work it to run a railroad out to tap the whole ridge. That kind of got him and we found he had no friends in this part of the country--so we sat down to grub together, Ben Cameron, like me, unsuspectin' of what was to happen. "My God, Nichols, I can see it all like it had happened yesterday. Hawk Kennedy stood up as though to look around and then before I knew what he was about had struck Ben Cameron in the back with his knife. "It was all over in a minute. Ben Cameron reached for his gun but before his hand got to it he toppled over sideways and lay quiet. "I started up to my feet but Hawk had me covered and I knew from what had happened that he'd shoot, too. "'Don't make a fuss,' he says. 'Give me your gun.' I knew he had me to rights and I did what he said. 'Now,' he says, 'it's yours and mine.'" McGuire made a motion toward the glass. Peter filled it for him and he drank. "And then--what happened?" asked Peter quietly. "Hawk Kennedy had me dead to rights. There was only one thing to do--to make believe I was 'with him.' We buried Ben Cameron, then went down and brought our outfit up, Hawk watchin' me all the while. He'd taken my gun and Ben Cameron's and unloaded them and carried all the ammunition about him. But I didn't know what I was in for. That night he made me sit down while he drew up a paper, torn from an old note book of Ben Cameron's--a partnership agreement, a contract." McGuire broke off suddenly and got up, moving nervously to the safe, from one of the drawers of which he took a blue linen envelope and brought forth a paper which he handed to Peter. "That's the hellish thing, Nichols," he said hoarsely. "That's why I'm afraid of Hawk Kennedy. A lie that he forced me to sign! And there's another paper like this in his possession. Read it, Nichols." Peter took the paper in his fingers and looked at it curiously. It was soiled and worn, broken at the edges, written over in lead pencil, but still perfectly legible. AGREEMENT BETWEEN HAWK KENNEDY AND MIKE McGUIRE Us two found Ben Cameron on his copper claim in Madre Gulch. We killed him. Both of us had a hand in it. This mine is Hawk Kennedy's and Mike McGuire's and we are pardners in the same until death us do part, so help us God. (Signed) MIKE MCGUIRE. HAWK KENNEDY. "He wanted it on me----" McGuire gasped. "You see? To keep me quiet." "I understand," said Peter. "This is 'what you've got and what I've got' referred to in the placard." "Yes," said McGuire. "A partnership agreement and a confession--of something I didn't do." Peter's eyes were searching him through and through. "You swear it?" McGuire held up his right hand and met Peter's gaze without flinching. "Before God, I do." Peter was silent for a moment, thinking. "And then, you left Hawk Kennedy there to die," he said slowly, watching the man. McGuire sank into his chair with a sigh, the perspiration now beaded on his pale forehead. "I didn't know what to do, I tell you," he almost whispered. "He had me. I was unarmed. I'd 'a' killed him if I'd had a gun. But I waited a few days after we buried Cameron--makin' believe I was satisfied with everything and he believed me, and at last he fell asleep tired with keepin' watch on me. He was all in. I bored holes in Ben Cameron's barrels, lettin' the water out down the rocks, then took the three horses and the mules with all the water that was left and got away before he woke up. "It was a terrible thing to do, Nichols--call it murder if you like. But it served him right. It was comin' to him--and I got away with it. At first when I reached water I had a thought of goin' back--to save him before he died--to get that paper I couldn't get that was inside his shirt." McGuire leaned forward, his face in his hands for a moment, trying to finish. "But I didn't go back, Nichols. I didn't go back. That's the crime I'm payin' for now--not the other--not the murder of Ben Cameron--I didn't do that--the murder of Hawk Kennedy--who has come back." "What happened then?" "I turned Ben Cameron's horse and burros loose where there was water and grass and went on to Bisbee. I told them my buddy had died of a fever. I thought he had by now. They didn't ask any questions. I was safe. The rest was easy. I filed a claim, found some real money and told what I'd found. I waited a month, then went back to Madre Gulch with Bill Munroe, the fellow that helped stake us. There was no one there. We searched the rocks and plains for miles around for signs of Hawk Kennedy's body, for we knew he couldn't have got far in that heat without water. But we found nothin'. Hawk Kennedy had disappeared." "Then," said Peter, "you built a railroad in and sold out for half a million dollars----?" McGuire looked up, mystified. "Or thereabouts," he muttered. "But Hawk Kennedy was alive. I found that out later when he wrote from London. We steered him off the track. But I knew he'd come back some day with that paper I'd signed. That's what's been hangin' over me. An' now it's fallen. I've told you the truth. I had to. You believe me, don't you?" he asked appealingly. Peter had watched him keenly. There seemed little doubt that what he told was the truth. There was no flaw in the tale. "Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe you've told me the truth. But you can hardly blame Hawk Kennedy, murderer though he is, for hating you and wanting what he thinks is his." "No. That's true." "And you can't blame me for being angry at the trick you played me----" "I was desperate. I've been desperate since I saw him in New York. Sometimes I've been a bit queer, I reckon--thinkin' about Peggy hearin' this. I wanted to kill him. It was a good chance last night. Nobody would have blamed me, after his being around the place. It was an easy shot--but my hand wasn't steady----" "Pity you didn't know that before you put me in danger." "I'm sorry, Nichols--sorry. I'll do anything you like. What do you want me to do?" Instead of replying at once Peter took out a cigarette and lighted it carefully. And then, "You've never taken the trouble to make any inquiries as to the whereabouts of the family of Ben Cameron?" he asked. The old man shook his head. "Why not?" "I was afraid to ask." "I see. Don't you think it's about time you did? It's _his_ money that made your fortune." "He was no good. Nobody knew him. So far as I ever heard, nobody ever asked about him." "Nevertheless he must have had some friends somewhere." "Maybe. I don't know. I'm willing to help them if I can, providing this thing can be kept quiet." And then, pleadingly, "You're not going to talk--to use it against me, Nichols?" Peter's pity for McGuire had come back. The man's terror, his desperation of the past weeks had burned him out, worn him to a shell. "No, I'm not going to talk. Hawk Kennedy didn't dare tell what you've told me. That's why I believe you." "And you'll stay on here and help me?" "Yes----We'll see how we can balk Hawk Kennedy." "I'll pay him fifty thousand--a hundred thousand--for that agreement----" "Not a dollar. I've got a better use for your money than that." McGuire thought Peter referred to the necessary improvements of the estate. But Peter had another idea in mind. CHAPTER XIII THE CHASE Peter had discovered the means of providing for Beth's musical education. Upon inquiry he had found that McGuire hardly knew Beth except as a dependent relative of Mrs. Bergen, who came in sometimes to help her aunt with the cleaning--usually before McGuire came down from New York. Their little home was not on his visiting list. He delayed telling McGuire. There was plenty of time and there was no doubt of his employer's doing the right thing by the daughter of the murdered man. Meanwhile, having completed his plans for the estate, he had suggested that McGuire go off for a trip somewhere to rest and recover his poise. Peter had promised his allegiance to McGuire when Hawk Kennedy returned, but he knew that he would have to fight fire with fire. For Hawk had proved himself both skillful and dangerous, and would struggle desperately to get what he thought was his own. It was his last chance to make a big stake--to be independent for the rest of his life. He was tasting luxury now and wouldn't give up without a fight to the death. Something must be thought of--some plan to outwit him, to circumvent the schemes which would come out of his visit of investigation to the copper country. Peter had said nothing to Beth or to Mrs. Cameron of what he had discovered. He was under no oath of secrecy to the old man, but he realized that while Hawk Kennedy held the "confession" McGuire was in a predicament which would only be made more difficult if the facts got abroad. And so Peter had gone about his work silently, aware that the burden of McGuire's troubles had been suddenly shifted to his own shoulders. He spent most of his days at the lumber camp and now had every detail of the business at his fingers' ends. Timbers had been hauled to the appointed sites and under his direction the fire towers were now half way to completion. He had found Shad Wells down at the mills, morose, sullen and disposed to question his authority, but McGuire had visited the bunk-house one night before he went away, and it was soon discovered that Peter and no other was the boss of the job. Peter for reasons of his own retained Shad, much to that gentleman's surprise, as foreman of the lumbering gang, but Peter wasn't at all satisfied with conditions as he had found them at the lumber camp and mills and, as he discovered later, the continuance of Shad in the foreman's job was a mistake. If Peter had hoped by this act of conciliation to heal Shad's wounds and bring about a spirit of useful coöperation with the man, he soon found that the very reverse of this had been accomplished. The lumbermen were an unregenerate lot, some of them "pineys," a few Italians, but most of them the refuse of the factories and shipyards, spoiled by the fatal "cost plus" contracts of war time. All of these facts Peter learned slowly, aware of an undercurrent moving against him and yet entirely dependent upon this labor--which was the best, indeed the only labor, to be had. He made some improvements in the bunk-house for their comfort, increased the supply of food and posted notices that all complaints of whatever nature would be promptly investigated. But day after day new stories came to him of shirking, of dissatisfaction and continued trouble-making. This labor trouble was no new thing at Black Rock, and had existed practically since the beginning of the work on the lumber contract six months before Peter had been employed. But it was not long before Peter discovered through Jesse Brown, whose confidence he had gained, that there were agitators in the camp, undoubtedly receiving their inspiration and pay from sources inimical to all capital in the abstract and to all order and decency at Black Rock in the concrete, who were fomenting the unrest and dissatisfaction among the men. In order to investigate the difficulties personally Peter went down to the camp and lived there for a time, bunking with the men and listening to their stories, winning some of them to his side and tracing as far as he could the troubles to their sources, two men named Flynn and Jacobi. He discharged these two men and sent them out of the camp over Wells's protest. But even then he had a sense of failure. The trouble was deeper than was manifest upon the surface. No mere raise in wages would clear it away. It was born of the world's sickness, with which the men from the cities had been inoculated. One night while he sat in the bunk-house smoking a pipe and talking with Jesse Brown, Shad Wells suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed against the darkness. Shad's gaze and Peter's met--then Peter's glance turned to Shad's companion. As this man saw Peter he turned his head and went down the length of the bunk-house. Peter got up at once, followed him and faced him. The man now wore a dark beard, but there was no mistake. It was the fellow of the black mustache--the stranger whom Peter had seen in the Pennsylvania Station in New York, the same man he had caught prowling some weeks ago around his cabin in the darkness. Peter stared at him for a moment but the man would not meet his gaze. "Who are you?" asked Peter at last. And then, as he made no reply, "What were you doing prowling around my cabin up by the creek?" The stranger shook his head from side to side. "No understan'," he muttered. At this point, Shad Wells, who had followed with Jesse Brown, came in between them. "That's right, Nichols," he growled. "No understan'--He's a 'guinea.'" To Wells all men were "guineas" who didn't speak his own language. "Italian? Are you? French? Spanish? Slovak?" Each time the man shook his head. And then, with an inspiration, Peter shot at him a quick phrase in Russian. But the man gave no sign of comprehension. "Who put this man on?" asked Peter, turning to Wells. "I did," said the native sullenly. "Why?" said Peter, growing warmer. "Didn't I tell you that in future I would hire all the men myself?" "We're short-handed, since you fired two of the best axmen we got----" "You disobeyed orders----" "_Orders_--Hell!" "All right. We'll see who's running this camp, you or me. To-morrow morning Jesse Brown starts as foreman here. Understand?" Shad's eyes shot fire, then smoldered and went out as he turned with a sneering laugh and walked away. "As for you," said Peter to the stranger, who stood uncertainly, "you go to the office in the morning and get your envelope." Then repeated the sentence in Russian. "If you don't understand--find somebody who does." That the stranger had understood Peter's demeanor if not his language was evident, for in the morning he had vanished. After that clearing of the air things went somewhat better at the camp. Jesse Brown, though not aggressive, was steady and honest and had a certain weight with the Jerseymen. As to the others, there was doubt as to whether anything would have satisfied them. For the present, at least, it was a question of getting on as well as possible with the means at hand. There was a limit to Peter's weekly pay roll and other men were not to be had. Besides, Peter had promised McGuire to keep the sawmills busy. He knew that when he had come to Black Rock the work on the lumber contract had already fallen behind the schedule, and that only by the greatest perseverance could he make up the time already lost. As he rode back to his cabin on the afternoon after his encounter with Shad Wells and the stranger with the black mustache, he found himself quite satisfied with regard to his summary dismissal of them both. On Beth's account he had hesitated to depose Shad. He knew that before he had come to Black Rock they had been friends as well as distant relatives, and Beth in her frequent meetings with Peter had expressed the hope that Shad would "come around." Peter had given him every chance, even while he had known that the Jerseyman was working against both McGuire's and Peter's interests. Flynn and Jacobi, the men Peter had sent away, were radicals and agitators. Flynn had a police record that did not bear close inspection, and Jacobi was an anarchist out and out. Before Peter had come to Black Rock they had abused Shad's credulity and after the fight at the Cabin, he had been their willing tool in interrupting the completion of the contract. For of course Shad had hoped that if Peter couldn't get the lumber out when promised, McGuire would put the blame on the new superintendent and let him go. That was Shad's idea. If he had ever been decent enough to warrant Beth's friendship, his jealousy had warped his judgment. Peter was no longer sorry for Shad Wells. He had brought all his troubles on himself. As to the stranger with the black mustache, that was a more serious matter. Every circumstance--the recognition in New York, the skill with which the man had traced him to Black Rock, the craft with which he had watched Peter and his success in finally getting into the camp and gaining Shad's confidence, made a certainty in Peter's mind that the stranger had some object in remaining near Peter and keeping him under observation. And what other object than a political one? The trail he had followed had begun with the look of recognition in the Pennsylvania Station in New York. And where could that look of recognition have sprung from unless he had identified Peter Nichols as the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch? It seemed incredible, but there could be no other explanation. The man had seen him somewhere--perhaps in Russia--perhaps in Paris or London, or perhaps had only identified him by his portraits which had been published frequently in the Continental magazines and newspapers. But that he had really identified him there could not be the slightest doubt and Peter's hope that he would have been able to lose his identity in the continent of America and become merged into a different civilization where he could work out the personal problem of existence in his own time, by his own efforts and in his own way, seemed destined to failure. If the stranger knew that Peter was in New Jersey there was no doubt that there were others who knew it also, those who employed him--those in whose interests he was working. Who? The same madmen who had done Nicholas to death and had killed one by one the misguided Empress, Olga, Tania, the poor little Czarevitch and the rest.... Did they consider him, Peter Nichols, lumber-jack extraordinary, as a possible future claimant to the throne of Russia? Peter smiled grimly. They were "straining at a gnat while swallowing the camel." And if they feared him, why didn't they strike? The stranger had already had ample opportunity to murder him if he had been so disposed, could still do it during Peter's daily rides back and forth from the Cabin to the camp and to the Upper Reserve. All of these thoughts percolated slowly, as a result of the sudden inspiration at the bunk-house which had liberated a new train of ideas, beginning with the identification of the Russian characteristics of the new lumberman, which were more clearly defined under the beard and workman's shirt than under the rather modish gray slouch hat and American clothing in which Peter had seen him earlier. And Peter had merely let the man go. He had no proof of the fellow's purposes, and if he had even discovered exactly what those purposes were, there was no recourse for Peter but to ask for the protection of Washington, and this he had no desire to do. If the man suspected from the quickly spoken Russian sentence that Peter now guessed his mission, he had given no sign of it. But that meant nothing. The fellow was clever. He was doubtless awaiting instructions. And unless Peter took his case to the Department of Justice he could neither expect any protection nor hope for any security other than his own alertness. At the Cabin Beth was waiting for him. These hours of music and Beth were now as much a part of Peter's day as his breakfast or his dinner. And he had only failed her when the pressure of his responsibilities was too great to permit of his return to the Cabin. The hour most convenient for him was that at the close of the day, and though weary or discouraged, Peter always came to the end of this agreeable hour rested and refreshed, and with a sense of something definitely achieved. For whatever the days brought forth of trouble and disappointment, down at the logging camp or the mills, here was Beth waiting for him, full of enthusiasm and self-confidence, a tangible evidence of success. The diligence with which she applied his instructions, the ease with which she advanced from one step to another, showed her endowed with an intelligence even beyond his early expectations. She was singing simple ballads now, English and French, and already evinced a sense of interpretation which showed the dormant artist. He tried at first, of course, to eliminate all striving for effect, content to gain the purity of tone for which he was striving, but she soared beyond him sometimes, her soul defying limitations, liberated into an empyrean of song. If anything, she advanced too rapidly, and Peter's greatest task was to restrain her optimism and self-confidence by imposing the drudgery of fundamental principles. And when he found that she was practicing too long, he set her limits of half-hour periods beyond which she must not go. But she was young and strong and only once had he noted the slightest symptom of wear and tear on her vocal chords, when he had closed the piano and prohibited the home work for forty-eight hours. As to their personal relations, Peter had already noticed a difference in his own conduct toward Beth, and in hers toward him,--a shade of restraint in Beth's conversation when not on the topic of music, which contrasted rather strangely with the candor of their first meetings. Peter couldn't help smiling at his memories, for now Beth seemed to be upon her good behavior, repaying him for her earlier contempt with a kind of awe at his attainments. He caught her sometimes in unguarded moments looking at him curiously, as though in wonder at a mystery which could not be explained. And to tell the truth, Peter wondered a little, too, at his complete absorption in the task he had set himself. He tried to believe that it was only the music that impelled him, only the joy of an accomplished musician in the discovery of a budding artist, but he knew that it was something more than these. For reducing the theorem to different terms, he was obliged to confess that if the girl had been any one but Beth, no matter how promising her voice, he must have been bored to extinction. No. He had to admit that it was Beth that interested him, Beth the primitive, Beth the mettlesome, Beth the demure. For if now demure she was never dull. The peculiarity of their situation--of their own choosing--lent a spice to the relationship which made each of them aware that the other was young and desirable--and that the world was very far away. However far Beth's thoughts may have carried her in the contemplation of the personal pulchritude of her music master (somewhat enhanced by the extirpation of the Hellion triplet in her own behalf) it was Peter Nicholaevitch who made the task of Peter Nichols difficult. It was the Grand Duke Peter who wanted to take this peasant woman in his arms and teach her what other peasant girls had been taught by Grand Dukes since the beginning of the autocratic system of which he had been a part--but it was Peter Nichols who restrained him. Peter Nicholaevitch feared nothing, knew no restraint, lived only for the hour--for the moment. Peter Nichols was a coward--or a gentleman--he was not quite certain which. When Peter entered the Cabin on the evening after the appointment of Jesse Brown as foreman at the lumber camp, Beth could not help noticing the clouds of worry that hung over Peter's brows. "You're tired," she said. "Is anything wrong at the camp?" But he only shook his head and sat down at the piano. And when she questioned him again he evaded her and went on with the lesson. Music always rested him, and the sound of her voice soothed. It was the "Elégie" of Massenet that he had given her, foolishly perhaps, a difficult thing at so early a stage, because of its purity and simplicity, and he had made her learn the words of the French--like a parrot--written them out phonetically, because the French words were beautiful and the English, as written, abominable. And now she sang it to him softly, as he had taught her, again and again, while he corrected her phrasing, suggesting subtle meanings in his accompaniment which she was not slow to comprehend. "I didn't know that music could mean so much," she sighed as she sank into a chair with a sense of failure, when the lesson was ended. "I always thought that music just meant happiness. But it means sorrow too." "Not to those who hear you sing, Beth," said Peter with a smile, as he lighted and smoked a corncob pipe, a new vice he had discovered at the camp. Already the clouds were gone from his forehead. "No! Do you really think that, Mr. Nichols?" she asked joyously. She had never been persuaded to call him by his Christian name, though Peter would have liked it. The "Mr." was the tribute of pupil to master, born also of a subtler instinct of which Peter was aware. "Yes," he replied generously, "you'll sing that very well in time----" "When I've suffered?" she asked quickly. He glanced up from the music in his hand, surprised at her intuition. "I don't like to tell you so----" "But I think I understand. Nobody can sing what she doesn't feel--what she hasn't felt. Oh, I know," she broke off suddenly. "I can sing songs of the woods--the water--the pretty things like you've been givin' me. But the deep things--sorrow, pain, regret--like this--I'm not 'up' to them." Peter sat beside her, puffing contentedly. "Don't worry," he muttered. "Your voice will ripen." "And will I ripen too?" He laughed. "I don't want you ever to be any different from what you are." She was thoughtful a moment, for Peter had always taken pains to be sparing in personalities which had nothing to do with her voice. "But I don't want always to be what I am," she protested, "just growin' close to the ground like a pumpkin or a squash." He laughed. "You might do worse." "But not much. Oh, I know. You're teachin' me to think--and to feel--so that I can make other people do the same--the way you've done to me. But it don't make me any too happy to think of bein' a--a squash again." "Perhaps you won't have to be," said Peter quietly. "And the factory--I've got to make some money next winter. I can't use any of Aunt Tillie's savin's. But when I know what I _might_ be doin', it's not any too easy to think of goin' back _there_!" "Perhaps you won't have to go," said Peter again. Her eyes glanced at him quickly, looked away, then returned to his face curiously. "I don't just understand what you mean." "I mean," said Peter, "that we'll try to find the means to keep you out of the glass factory--to keep on with the music." "But how----? I can't be dependent on----" She paused with a glance at him. And then quickly, with her characteristic frankness that always probed straight to her point, "You mean that _you_ will pay my way?" "Merely that I'm going to find the money--somehow." But she shook her head violently. "Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that, Mr. Nichols. I couldn't think of it." "But you've got to go on, Beth. I've made up my mind to that. You'll go pretty fast. It won't be long before you'll know all that I can teach you. And then I'm going to put you under the best teacher of this method in New York. In a year or so you'll be earning your own way----" "But I can't let you do this for me. You're doin' too much as it is--too much that I can't pay back." "We won't talk of money. You've given me a lot of enjoyment. That's my pay." "But this other--this studyin' in New York. No, I couldn't let you do that. I couldn't--I can't take a cent from you or from any man--woman either, for that matter. I'll find some way--workin' nights. But I'm not goin' back," she added almost fiercely between her teeth, "not to the way I was before. I won't. I can't." "Good. That's the way great careers are made. I don't intend that you shall. I'm going to make a great singer of you, Beth." She colored with joy. "Are you, Mr. Nichols? Are you? Oh, I want to make good--indeed I do--to learn French and Italian----" And then, with a sharp sigh, "O Lord, if wishes were horses----!" She was silent again, regarding him wistfully. "Don't think I'm not grateful. I'm afraid you might. I _am_ grateful. But--sometimes I wonder what you're doin' it all for, Mr. Nichols. And whether----" As she paused again Peter finished for her. "Whether it wouldn't have been better if I hadn't let you just remain--er," he grinned, "a peach, let's say? Well, I'll tell you, Beth," he went on, laying his pipe aside, "I came here, without a friend, to a strange job in a strange country. I found you. Or rather _you_ found _me_--lost like a babe in the woods. You made fun of me. Nobody had ever done that before in my life, but I rather liked it. I liked your voice too. You were worth helping, you see. And then along came Shad. I couldn't have him ordering you about, you know--not the way he did it--if he hadn't any claim on you. So you see, I had a sense of responsibility for you after that----About you, too----," he added, as though thinking aloud. His words trailed off into silence while Beth waited for him to explain about his sense of responsibility. She wasn't altogether accustomed to have anybody responsible for her. But as he didn't go on, she spoke. "You mean that you--that I--that Shad forced me on you?" "Bless your heart, child--no." "Then what _did_ you mean?" she insisted. Peter thought he had a definite idea in his mind about what he felt as to their relationship. It was altruistic he knew, gentle he was sure, educational he was positive. But half sleepily he spoke, unaware that what he said might sound differently to one of Beth's independent mind. "I mean," he said, "that I wanted to look after you--that I wanted our friendship to be what it has proved to be--without the flaw of sentiment. I wouldn't spoil a single hour by any thought of yours or mine that led us away from the music." And then, while her brain worked rapidly over this calm negation of his, "But you can't be unaware, Beth, that you're very lovely." Now "sentiment" is a word over which woman has a monopoly. It is her property. She understands its many uses as no mere man can ever hope to do. The man who tosses it carelessly into the midst of a delicate situation is courting trouble. Beth perked up her head like a startled fawn. What did he mean? All that was feminine in her was up in arms, nor did she lay them down in surrender at his last phrase, spoken with such an unflattering air of commonplace. Suddenly she startled Peter with a rippling laugh which made him sit up blinking at her. "Are you apologizin' for not makin' love to me?" she questioned impertinently. "Say--that's funny." And she went off into another disconcerting peal of laughter. But it wasn't funny for Peter, who was now made aware that she had turned his mind inside out upon the table between them, so to speak, that she might throw dust in the wheels. And so he only gasped and stared at her--startlingly convinced that in matters of sentiment the cleverest man is no match for even the dullest woman and Beth could hardly be considered in this category. At the challenge of his half expressed thought the demureness and sobriety of the lesson hour had fallen from her like a doffed cloak. Peter protested blandly. "You don't understand what----" But she broke in swiftly. "Maybe you were afraid I might be fallin' in love with _you_," she twitted him, and burst into laughter again. "I--I had no such expectation," said Peter, stiffening, sure that his dignity was a poor thing. "Or maybe----," she went on joyfully, "maybe you were afraid _you_ might be fallin' in love with _me_." And then as she rose and gathered up her music, tantalizingly, "What _did_ you mean, Mr. Nichols?" He saw that he was losing ground with every word she uttered, but his sense of humor conquered. "You little pixie!" he cried, dashing for her, with a laugh. "Where have you hidden this streak of impudence all these weeks?" But she eluded him nimbly, running around the table and out of the door before he could catch up with her. He halted at the doorsill and called to her. She emerged cautiously from behind a bush and made a face at him. "Beth! Come back!" he entreated. "I've got something to say to you." "What?" she asked, temporizing. "I want to talk to you--seriously." "Good Lord--seriously! You're not goin' to--to take the risk of--of havin' me 'vamp' you, are you?" "Yes. I'll risk that," he grinned. But she only broke off a leaf and nibbled at it contemplatively. "Maybe _I_ won't risk it. 'I don't want to spoil a single hour,'" she repeated, mocking his dignity, 'by any thought of yours or mine that would lead us away from the music.' Maybe _I'm_ in danger." And then, "You know _you're_ not so bad lookin' yourself, Mr. Nichols!" "Stop teasing, Beth." "I won't." "I'll make you." He moved a step toward her. "Maybe I hadn't better come any more," she said quizzically. "Beth!" "Suppose I _was_ learnin' to love you a little," she went on ironically, "with you scared I might be--and not knowin' how to get out of it. Wouldn't that be terrible! For me, I mean. 'She loved and lost, in seven reels.'" She was treading on precarious ground, and she must have seen her danger in Peter's face, for as he came toward her she turned and ran down the path, laughing at him. Peter followed in full stride but she ran like a deer and by the time he had reached the creek she was already halfway over the log-jam below the pool. Her laugh still derided him and now, eager to punish her, he leaped after her. But so intent he was on keeping her in sight upon the farther bank that his foot slipped on a tree trunk and he went into the water. A gay peal of laughter echoed in his ears. And he caught a last glimpse of her light frock as it vanished into the underbrush. But he scrambled up the bank after her and darted along the path--lost her in the dusk, and then deep in the woods at one side saw her flitting from tree to tree away from him. But Peter's blood was now warm with the chase--and it was the blood of Peter Nicholaevitch too. Forgotten were the studious hours of patience and toil. Here was a girl who challenged his asceticism--a beautiful young female animal who dared to mock at his self-restraint. She thought that she could get away. But he gained on her. She had stopped laughing at him now. "Beth! You little devil!" he cried breathlessly, as he caught her. "You little devil, I'll teach you to laugh at me." "Let me go----" "No----" He held her in his arms while she struggled vainly to release herself. Her flushed face was now a little frightened and her large blue eyes stared in dismay at what she saw in his face. "Let me go?" she whispered. "I didn't mean it----" But he only held her closer while she struggled, as he kissed her--on the brows, the chin, the cheeks, and as she relaxed in sheer weakness--full on the lips--again--again. "Do you think I haven't been trying to keep my hands off you all these weeks?" he whispered. "Do you think I haven't wanted you--to teach you what women were meant for? It's for this, Beth--and this. Do you think I haven't seen how lovely you are? Do you think I'm a saint--an anchorite? Well, I'm not. I'll make you love me--love me----" Something in the reckless tones of his voice--in his very words aroused her to new struggles. "Oh, let me go," she gasped. "I don't love you. I won't. Let me go." "You shall!" "No. Let me loose or I--I'll despise you----" "Beth!" "I mean it. Let me go." If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before. "Oh--how I hate you!" "Beth!" "I mean it. You--you----," she turned away from him, staring at the torn music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to her and failed--but sure that they were a true reflection of what had been in his heart. He had wanted her--then--nothing else had mattered--not duty or his set resolve.... "You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that----" "And is _this_ the way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only--if you'd only----" And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the trunk of a tree, sobbing violently. "Beth----" he whispered, gently, "don't----" "Go away. Oh, go. Go!" "I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say to you? That I love you? I do, Beth--I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now. "Was this what your teachin' meant?" she flashed at him bitterly. "Was this what you meant when you wanted to pay my way in New York? Oh, how you shame me! Go! Go away from me, please." "Please don't," he whispered. "You don't understand. I never meant that. I--I love you, Beth. I can't bear to see you cry." She made a valiant effort to control her heaving shoulders. And then, "Oh, you--you've spoiled it all. S-spoiled it all, and it was so beautiful." Had he? Her words sobered him. No, that couldn't be. He cursed his momentary madness, struggling for words to comfort her, but he had known that she had seen the look in his eyes, felt the roughness of his embrace. Love? The love that she had sung to him was not of these. He wanted now to touch her again--gently, to lift up her flushed face, wet like a flower with the fresh dew of her tears, and tell her what love was. But he didn't dare--he couldn't, after what he had said to her. And still she wept over her broken toys--the music--the singing--for they had mattered the most. Very childlike she seemed, very tender and pathetic. "Beth," he said at last, touching her fingers gently. "Nothing is changed, Beth. It can't be changed, dear. We've got to go on. It means so much to--to us both." But she paid no attention to the touch of his fingers and turned away, leaving the music at her feet, an act in itself significant. "Let me go home. Please. Alone. I--I've got to think." She did not look at him, but Peter obeyed her. There was nothing else to do. There was something in the clear depths of her eyes that had daunted him. And he had meant her harm. Had he? He didn't know. He passed his hand slowly across his eyes and then stood watching her until she had disappeared among the trees. When she had gone he picked up the torn music. It was Massenet's "Elégie." O doux printemps d'autrefois.... Tout est flétrie. The lines of the torn pieces came together. Spring withered! The joyous songs of birds--silenced! Beth's song? He smiled. No, that couldn't be. He folded the music up and strode off slowly, muttering to himself. CHAPTER XIV TWO LETTERS Peter passed a troublous evening and night--a night of self-revelations. Never that he could remember had he so deeply felt the sting of conscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with this little rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham and make-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed a country girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself to such a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism? He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her the best side of him--shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacity for self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why should it matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he said to her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the fact that he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things one might say to other women meant something different to Beth--the things one might do.... He had been a fool and lost his head, handled her roughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods, softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide, blue eyes had seen right down into the depths of his heart. He had been clumsy, if nothing else, and he had always thought that clumsiness was inexcusable. He had a guilty sense that while Beth was still the little lady to her finger tips, born to a natural nobility, he, the Grand Duke Peter, had been the boor, the vulgar proletarian. The look in her eyes had shamed him as the look in his own eyes had shamed her. She had known what his wooing meant, and it hadn't been what she wanted. The mention of love on lips that kissed as his had done was blasphemy. Yes. He cared what she thought of him--and he vainly cast about for a way in which to justify himself. To make matters worse Beth still believed that this was the payment he exacted for what he had done for her, what he had proposed to do for her, that he measured her favors in terms of value received. What else could she think but that? Every hour of his devotion to her music defamed her. The situation was intolerable. In the morning he went seeking her at her home. The house was open. No one in Black Rock village locked doors by day or night. Beth was not there. A neighbor said that she had gone early alone into the woods and Peter understood. If she hadn't cared for him she wouldn't have needed to go to the woods to be alone. Of course she didn't appear at the Cabin the next day, and Peter searched for her--fruitlessly. She weighed on his conscience, like a sin unshrived. He had to find her to explain the unexplainable, to tell her what her confidence had meant to him, to recant his blasphemy of her idols in gentleness and repentance. As he failed to find her, he wrote her a note, asking her forgiveness, and stuck it in the mirror of the old hat-rack in the hall. Many women in Europe and elsewhere, ladies of the great world that Beth had only dreamed about, would have given their ears (since ear puffs were in fashion) to receive such a note from Peter. It was a beautiful note besides--manly, gentle, breathing contrition and self-reproach. Beth merely ignored it. Whatever she thought of it and of Peter she wanted to deliberate a longer while. And so another music lesson hour passed while Peter sat alone in the Cabin waiting. That night two letters were brought to him. The superscription of one was scrawled in a boyish hand. The other was scented, dainty, of pale lavender, and bore a familiar handwriting and a familiar coronet. In amazement he opened this first. It was from the Princess Galitzin, written in the polyglot of French, English and Russian which she affected. "CHERE PIERRE," it ran,--in the English, somewhat as follows: "You will no doubt be surprised at hearing from me in far-off America and amazed at the phenomenon of your discovered address at the outlandish place you've chosen for your domicile. It's very simple. In America you have been watched by agents of the so-called government of our wretched country. We know this here in London, because one of _our_ agents is also a part of their secret organization. He came upon the report of your doings and knowing that father was interested, detailed the information to us. "So far as I can learn at the present writing you are in no immediate danger of death, but we do not know here in London how soon the word may be sent forth to 'remove' persons of your importance in the cosmic scheme. It seems that your desire to remain completely in hiding is looked upon with suspicion in Russia as evidence of a possible intention on your part to come to light at the beginnings of a Bourbon movement and proclaim yourself as the leader of a Royalist party. Your uncles and cousins have chosen the line of least resistance in yielding to the inevitable, living in Switzerland, and other spots where their identities are well known. "I pray, my well remembered and _bel ami_, that the cause of Holy Russia is still and ever present in your heart of hearts and that the thing these devils incarnate fear may one day come to pass. But I pray you to be discreet and watchful, if necessary changing your place of abode to one in which you will enjoy greater security from your enemies. There is at last one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo. "_Helas!_ London is dead sea fruit. People are very kind to us. We have everything that the law allows us, but life seems to have lost its charm. I have never quite forgiven you, _mon Pierre_, for your desertion of us at Constantinople, though doubtless your reasons for preserving your incognito were of the best. But it has saddened me to think that you did not deem me worthy of a closer confidence. You are doubtless very much alone and unhappy--also in danger not only from your political enemies, but also from the American natives in the far away woods in which you have been given occupation. I trust, such as it is, that you have taken adequate measures to protect yourself. I know little of America, but I have a longing to go to that splendid country, rugged in its primitive simplicity, in spite of inconveniences of travel and the mass of uncultured beings with whom one must come into contact. Do you think it would be possible for a spoiled creature like me to find a boudoir with a bath--that is, in the provinces, outside of New York? "It is terrible that you can have no music in your life! I too miss your music, _Pietro mio_, as I miss you. Perhaps one day soon you will see me. I am restless and bored to extinction, with these ramrods of Englishmen who squeeze my rings into my fingers. But if I come I will be discreet toward Peter Nichols. That was a clever invention of yours. It really sounds--quite--American. "_Garde toi bien, entendez vous? Tout de suite je viendrai. Au revoir._ "ANASTASIE." Peter read the letter through twice, amused, astounded and dismayed by turns. His surmise in regard to the stranger with the black mustache had been correct then. The man was a spy of the Russian Soviets. And so instead of having been born immaculate into a new life, as he had hoped--a man without a past, and only a future to be accounted for--he was only the Grand Duke Peter after all. And Anastasie! Why the devil did she want to come nosing about in America, reminding him of all the things that he wanted to forget? The odor of her sachet annoyed him. A bath and boudoir! He realized now that she had always annoyed him with her pretty silly little affectations and her tawdry smatterings of the things that were worth while. He owed her nothing. He had made love to her, of course, because that was what a woman of her type expected from men of his. But there had been no damage done on either side, for he had not believed that she had ever really cared. And now distance, it seemed, had made her heart grow fonder, distance and the romantic circumstances of his exile. It was kind of her, of course, to let him know of his danger, but only human after all. She could have done no less, having the information. And now she was coming to offer him the charity of her wealth, to tempt him with ease, luxury and London. He would have none of them. He picked up the other letter with even more curiosity until he read the postmark, and then his interest became intense, for he knew that it was from Jim Coast--Hawk Kennedy. The letter bore the heading, "Antlers Hotel, Colorado Springs." "DEAR PETE," he read, through the bad spelling, "Here I am back at the 'Springs,' at the 'Antlers,' after a nice trip down Bisbee way, and out along the 'J. and A.' to the mine. It's there all right and they're workin' it yet to beat the cards with half a mountain still to be tapped. I ain't going into particulars--not in a letter, except to tell you that I got what I went for--names, dates and amounts--also met the gents our friend sold out to--nice people. Oh, I'm 'A1' with that outfit, old dear. I'm just writing this to show you I'm on the job and that if you've got an eye to business you'd better consider my proposition. I'll make it worth your while. You can help all right. You did me a good turn that night. I'll give you yours if you'll stand in proper and make McG. do what's right. It ain't what you said it was--it's justice all around. That's all I'm asking--what's right and proper. "I ain't coming back just yet, not for a month, maybe. I'm living easy and there's a lady here that suits my fancy. So just drop me a line at the above address, letting me know everything's O. K. Remember I'm no piker and I'll fix you up good. "Your friend, "JIM." Peter clenched the paper in his fist and threw it on the floor, frowning angrily at the thought of the man's audacity. But after a while he picked the crumpled note up and straightened it out upon the table, carefully rereading it. Its very touch seemed to soil his fingers, but he studied it for a long while, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket. It was a very careful game that Peter would have to play with Hawk Kennedy, a game that he had no liking for. But if he expected to succeed in protecting McGuire, he would have to outwit Jim Coast--or Hawk Kennedy, as he now thought of him--by playing a game just a little deeper than his own. Of course he now had the advantage of knowing the whole of McGuire's side of the story, while Kennedy did not believe the old man would have dared to tell. And to hold these cards successfully it would be necessary to continue in Kennedy's mind the belief that Peter did not share McGuire's confidences. It would also be necessary for Peter to cast in his lot, apparently, with Kennedy against McGuire. It was a dirty business at best, but he meant to carry it through if he could, and get the signed agreement from the blackmailer. Peter seemed to remember an old wallet that Jim Coast had always carried. He had seen it after Coast had taken slips of paper from it and showed them to Peter,--newspaper clippings, notes from inamorata and the like--but of course, never the paper now in question. And if he had carried it all these years, where was it now? In the vault of some bank or trust company probably, and this would make Peter's task difficult, if not impossible. Peter got up and paced the floor, thinking deeply of all these things in their relation to Beth. And then at last he went out into the night, his footsteps impelled toward the village. After all, the thoughts uppermost in his mind were of Beth herself. Whatever the cost to his pride, he would have to make his peace with her. He knew that now. Why otherwise did his restless feet lead him out into the pasture back of the little post office toward the rear of Mrs. Bergen's house? Yet there he found himself presently, smoking his corncob pipe for comfort, and staring at the solitary light in Tillie Bergen's parlor, which proclaimed its occupant. Mrs. Bergen's house stood at a little distance from its nearest neighbor, and Peter stole slowly through the orchard at the rear toward the open window. It was then that he heard the music for the first time, the "harmonium" wailing softly, while sweet and clear above the accompaniment (worked out painstakingly but lovingly by the girl herself) came Beth's voice singing the "Elégie." Peter came closer until he was just at the edge of the shadow outside the window. He knew that her back would be turned to him and so he peered around the shutter at her unconscious back. She sang the song through until the end and then after a pause sang it again. Peter had no ear now for the phrasing, for faults in technique, or inaccuracies in enunciation. What he heard was the soul of the singer calling. All that he had taught her in the hours in the Cabin was in her voice--and something more that she had learned elsewhere.... Her voice was richer--deeper, a child's voice no longer, and he knew that she was singing of his mad moment in the woods, which had brought the end of all things that had mattered in her life. It was no girl who sang now, but a woman who had learned the meaning of the song, the plaint of birds once joyous, of woodland flowers once gay--at the memory of a spring that was no more. He had told her that she would sing that song well some day when she learned what it meant. She would never sing it again as she had sung it to-night. All the dross that Peter had worn in the world was stripped from him in that moment, all that was petty and ignoble in his heart driven forth and he stood with bowed head, in shame for what he had been, and in gentleness for this dear creature whose idols he had cast down. At the end of the second verse, her fingers slipped from the keys and fell to her sides while she bowed her head and sat for a moment immovable. And then her shoulders moved slightly and a tiny smothered sound came from her throat. Suddenly her head bent and she fell forward on her arms upon the muted keys. Noiselessly he passed over the low windowsill and before she even knew that he was there, fell to his knees beside her. "Beth," he whispered. "Don't--child--don't!" She straightened, startled and incredulous at the sight of him, and tried to move away, but he caught one of her hands and with bent head gently laid his lips upon it. "Don't, Beth--please. I can't bear to see you cry----" "I--I'm _not_ crying," she stammered helplessly, while she winked back her tears, "I--I've just--just got the--the--stomachache." She tried to laugh--failing dismally in a sob. "Oh, Beth--don't----" he whispered. "I--I can't help it--if I--I've got a--a pain," she evaded him. "But I can," he murmured. "It's in your heart, Beth. I'm sorry for everything. Forgive me." "There's nothing to forgive." "Please!" "There's nothing to forgive," she repeated dully. But she had controlled her voice now and her fingers in his were struggling for release. "I was a brute, Beth. I'd give everything to have those moments back. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. See--how changed I am----" She released her fingers and turned slightly away. "I--I'm changed too, Mr. Nichols," she murmured. "No. You mustn't be, Beth. And I've got to have you back. You've got to come back to me, Beth." "Things can't be the same now." "Yes--just the same----" "No. Something's gone." "But if something else has taken its place----" "Nothing can----" "Something greater----" "I don't care for the sample you showed me," she returned quietly. "I was crazy, Beth. I lost my head. It won't happen again." "No. I know it won't----" "You don't understand. It couldn't. I've made a fool of myself. Isn't it enough for me to admit that?" "I knew it all the time." She was cruel, and from her cruelty he guessed the measure of her pride. "I've done all I can to atone. I want you to know that I love you. I do, Beth. I love you----" There was a note in his voice different from that she had heard the other day. His head was bent and he did not hear the little gasp or see the startled look in her eyes, which she controlled before he raised his head. With great deliberateness she answered him. "Maybe you and I--have a different idea of what love ought to be," she said. But he saw that her reproof was milder. "I know," he insisted. "You've sung it to me----" "No--not to you--not love," she said, startled. And then, "You had no right to be listenin'." And then, with a glance at Aunt Tillie's clock, "You have no right to be here now. It's late." "But I can't go until you understand what I want to do for you. You say that I can't know what love is. It asks nothing and only gives. I swear I wanted to give without thought of a return--until you laughed at me. And then--I wanted to punish you because you wouldn't understand----" "Yes. You punished me----" "Forgive me. You shouldn't have laughed at me, Beth. If you knew everything, you'd understand that I'm doing it all without a hope of payment,--just because I've got to." Her eyes grew larger. "What do you mean?" "I can't tell you now--but something has happened that will make a great difference to you." "What?" "Forgive me. Come to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell you. We've already wasted two days." "I'm not so sure they've been wasted," said Beth quietly. "I don't care if you'll only come. Will you, Beth? To-morrow?" She nodded gravely at last. "Perhaps," she said. And then, gently, "Good-night, Mr. Nichols." So Peter kissed her fingers as though she had been his Czarina and went out. CHAPTER XV SUPERMAN Of course Beth Cameron knew nothing of Russia's grand dukes. The only Duke that she had ever met was in the pages of the novel she had read in which the hero was named Algernon. That Duke was of the English variety, proud, crusty, and aged and had only made an unpleasant impression upon her because she had liked Algernon, who had fallen in love with the daughter of the Duke, and the Duke had been very horrid to him in consequence or by reason of that mishap. When she had said to Peter that he reminded her of Algernon she had meant it, and that was really very nice of her, because she thought Algernon all that a self-respecting hero should be. It was true that Peter, though mostly an Englishman, didn't play polo and ride to hounds or swagger around a club and order people about, because he was too poor and was obliged to work for his living. But he did remind her of Algernon somehow. He had a way with him, as though if there _had_ been butlers and valets at Black Rock he _could_ have swaggered and ordered them around if he'd had a mind to. He was good looking too. She had noted that even from the very first when she had found him lugging his suitcase down on the road from Pickerel River. Then too he did say things to her, nicer things than any fellow had ever known how to say to her before, and he was much more polite than she had ever believed it possible for any one, to be without seeming queer. But when, eavesdropping at McGuire's, she had heard Peter play the piano, she felt herself conducted into a new world which had nothing at all to do with glass factories and vineyards. Even the sartorial splendor of Miss Peggy McGuire paled into insignificance beside the new visions which the music of Peter Nichols had invoked. He hadn't just lied to her. He _was_ a musician. He _could_ play. She had never heard anybody bring from a piano sounds like these. And he had said he wanted her to sing for him. Beth had sung always--just as she had always breathed--but she had never heard any good music except on a talking machine at the boarding house at Glassboro--an old record of Madame Melba's that they played sometimes. But even that song from an opera ("Lay Boheem" they called it), mutilated as it was, had shown her that there was something more wonderful than the popular melodies that the other people liked. Beth's taste for good music, like her taste for nice people, was instinctive. And she had found that in her walk of life the one was about as difficult to find as the other. She had had her awakenings and her disillusionments, with women as well as men, but had emerged from her experiences of two winters in a factory town with her chin high and her heart pure--something of an achievement for one as pretty as Beth. All in all, she had liked Shad Wells better than any of the men she had met. He was rough, but she had discovered that good manners didn't always mean good hearts or clean minds. It was this discovery that had made her look askance at Peter Nichols when she had first met him on the road, for he was politer than anybody she had ever met. If her philosophy was to be consistent this new superintendent would need watching. But his music disarmed her and captured her imagination. And then came the incident of the jealous Shad and the extraordinary outcome of Mr. Nichols's championship of her rights. She had witnessed that fight from the shelter of the bushes. It had been dreadful but glorious. Peter's chivalry appealed to her--also his strength. From that moment he was superman. Then had followed the long wonderful weeks of music at the Cabin, in which she had learned the beginnings of culture and training. Her music-master opened new and beautiful vistas for her, told her of the great musicians and singers that the world had known, described the opera houses of Europe, the brilliant audiences, the splendid ballets, the great orchestras, and promised her that if she worked hard, she might one day become a part of all this. She had learned to believe him now, for she saw that as time went on he was more exacting with her work, more sparing in his praise of her, and she had worked hard--in despair at times, but with a slowly growing confidence in her star of destiny. And all the while she was wondering why Peter Nichols was doing this for her and what the outcome of it all was to be. He spoke little of the future except to hint vaguely at lessons elsewhere when he had taught her all that he knew. The present it seemed was sufficient for them both. His moods of soberness, of joy, of enthusiasm, were all catching and she followed him blindly, aware of this great new element in her life which was to make the old life difficult, if not impossible. He treated her always with respect, not even touching her arms or waist in passing--an accepted familiarity of men by girls of her social class. Beth understood that it was a consideration due to a delicate situation, the same consideration which had impelled her always to call him Mr. Nichols. And yet it was this very consideration of Peter's that vexed her. It wasn't an air of superiority, for she couldn't have stood that. It was just discretion, maybe, or something else, she couldn't decide what. But Beth didn't want to be put in a glass case like the wax flowers at home. Her voice was a mere mechanical instrument, as he had taken pains so often to tell her, but he seemed to be making the mistake of thinking _her_ a mechanical instrument too. She wasn't. She was very much alive, tingling with vitality, very human under her demure aspect during the singing lessons, and it had bothered her that Peter shouldn't know it. His ignorance, his indifference affronted her. Didn't he see what she looked like? Didn't he see that she might be worth making love to ... just a little, a very little ... once in a while? The clouds had broken suddenly, almost without warning, when he had talked like a professor--about sentiment--apologized--that was what he had done--_apologized_ for not making love to her! Oh! And then things had happened swiftly--incredible, unbelievable things. The lightning had flashed and it had shown an ugly Mr. Nichols--a different Mr. Nichols from anything that she could have imagined of him. The things he had said to her ... his kisses ... shameful things! A hundred times she had brushed them off like the vision of him from her mind. And still they returned, warm and pulsing to her lips. And still the vision of him returned--remained. He _had_ been so nice to her before.... * * * * * Now Beth sat in the big chair opposite Peter in the Cabin by the log fire (for the evenings were getting cool) while he finished telling her about the death of Ben Cameron, of the murder and of Jonathan K. McGuire's share in the whole terrible affair. It was with some misgivings, even after swearing her to secrecy, that he told her what he had learned through Kennedy and McGuire. And she had listened, wide-eyed. Her father of course was only the shadow of a memory to her, the evil shade in a half-forgotten dream, and therefore it was not grief that she could feel, not even sorrow for one who in life had been so vile, even if his miserable death had been so tragic--only horror and dismay at the thought of the perpetrator of the infamy. And not until Peter had come to the end of the story did she realize what this revelation meant, that the very foundation of McGuire's great fortune was laid upon property which belonged to her. "Out of all this evil must come some good, Beth," he finished soberly. "That copper mine was yours. McGuire took it and he is going to pay you what he owes." Beth had already exhausted all the expletives of horror and amazement, and now for a moment this last information staggered her and she stared at him unbelieving. "Pay me? I can't believe----" "It was your property by every law of God and man, and I mean that you shall have it." He paused and smiled softly. "You see, Beth, you won't need to depend on me now for your training." "Oh--then this was what you meant----" "What I meant when I said that you should owe me nothing--that I----" "But I _will_ owe you--everything. I shall still owe you everything." And then, wonderingly, "And just to think of my livin' here all this time so near the man--and not knowin' about----" Her words trailed off into silent astonishment. "Yes. And to think of his making his fortune on money that belonged to you! Millions. And he's going to pay you what he got out of the Tarantula mine--every dollar with interest to date." "But how can you make him do that?" she cried eagerly. "What proof have you got?" He smiled grimly into the fire as he poked a fallen log into the blaze. "Blackmail is an ugly word, Beth. But it shouldn't be blackmail, if silence is the price of getting what really belongs to you. McGuire is using your money--and he must give it to you. It's your money--not his. If he won't give it to you of his own free will, he will give it against his will." "But how can you make him do that?" asked Beth timidly. "By saving him from Hawk Kennedy. That's my price--and yours." "But how can you?" "I don't know. I've got to fight Kennedy with his own weapons--outwit him. And I've thought out a plan----" "But he's dangerous. You mustn't take any further risks with a man like that for me." Peter only smiled. "It will amuse me, Beth. And besides----" He bent forward to tend the fire, his face immediately grave again. "Besides--I think I owe you that, now." She understood what he meant and thrilled gently. Her joy had come back to her with a rush. All through the music lesson and through the recital of the tale of mystery she had hung breathlessly on his words and watched the changing expression on his features as he talked into the fire. This was _her_ Mr. Nichols who was speaking now, her friend and mentor, who wanted her to understand that this was his way of atonement. But she ignored his last remark, to Beth the most important of the entire conversation. "How--how much will the--the money amount to?" she asked timidly. Peter laughed. "Figure it out for yourself. Half a million--six per cent--fifteen years----" "Half a million dollars----!" "A million--or more!" "A million! God-a-mercy!" Peter recognized one of Aunt Tillie's expressions, Beth's vocabulary being inadequate to the situation. "But you haven't got it yet," he said. "And I daren't think of gettin' it. I won't think of it. I'd get my brain so full of things I wanted it would just naturally _bust_. Oh lordy!" Peter laughed. "You do want a lot of things, don't you?" "Of course. A silk waist, a satin skirt, some silk stockings--but most of all, a real sure enough piano," she gasped. And then, as though in reproach of her selfishness, "And I could pay off the mortgage on Aunt Tillie's farm back in the clearing!" "How much is that?" "Three thousand dollars. I've already paid off three hundred." "There ought to be enough for that," said Peter soberly. "Oh, Mr. Nichols. I hope you don't think I'm an awful fool talkin' this way." "Not unless you think _I_ am." "But it _is_ nice to dream of things sometimes." "Yes. I do that too. What do you dream of, Beth?" "Oh, of bein' a great singer, mostly--standin' on a stage with people lookin' up and clappin' their hands at me." "What else?" "Oh," she laughed gayly, "I used to dream of marryin' a prince--all girls do. But there ain't any princes now to marry." "No, that's true," he assented. "The old world hasn't any use for princes now." And then, "But why did you want to marry a prince?" he asked. "Oh, I don't know. It's just fairy tales. Haven't you ever lived in a fairy tale and loved a princess?" "Yes, I've lived in a fairy tale, but I've never loved a princess." "I guess if everybody knew," said Beth with conviction, "the princes in Europe are a pretty bad lot." "Yes," said Peter slowly, "I guess they are." She paused a moment, looking into the fire. And then, "Were you ever acquainted with any princes in Europe, Mr. Nichols?" Peter smiled. "Yes, Beth. I did know one prince rather intimately--rather too intimately." "Oh. You didn't like him?" "No, not much. He was an awful rotter. The worst of it was that he had good instincts and when he went wrong, he went wrong in spite of 'em. You see--he was temperamental." "What's temperamental?" "Having the devil and God in you both at the same time," muttered Peter after a moment. "I know," she said. "Satan and God, with God just sittin' back a little to see how far Satan will go." He smiled at her. "You don't mean that you have temptations too, Beth?" She ignored his question, her face sober, and went back to her subject. "I guess your prince wasn't any better or any worse than a lot of other people. Maybe he didn't give God a chance?" "No. Maybe not," said Peter. "It seems to me he must have been kind of human, somehow," Beth commented reflectively. "What's become of him now?" she asked, then. "Oh, he's out of it," replied Peter. "Dead?" "Yes. His country has chucked all the nobility out on the dust heap." "Russia?" "Yes." "Did they kill him?" "They tried to, but couldn't." "Where is he now?" "A wanderer on the face of the earth." "I'm so sorry. It must be terrible to have to eat pork and beans when your stomach's only used to chocolate sundaes." Peter grinned. "Some of 'em were glad enough to get off with stomachs to put beans and pork into. Oh, you needn't waste your pity, Beth." "I don't. I read the papers. I guess they got what they deserved. The workin' people in the world ain't any too keen on buyin' any more diamond tiaras for loafers. I reckon it was about time for a new deal all around without the face cards." "Perhaps, Beth. But there's always the ten spot to take the deuce." "I hadn't thought of that," said Beth reflectively. "People aren't really equal--are they? Some apples _are_ better than others. I guess," she sighed, "that the real trouble with the world is because there ain't enough friendship in it." Peter was silent for a moment. "Yes, that's true," he said, "not enough friendship--not enough love. And it's all on account of money, Beth. There wouldn't have been any European war if some people hadn't wanted property that belonged to somebody else." "I hope wanting this money won't make me hate anybody or make anybody hate me. I don't want to make Mr. McGuire unhappy or Miss McGuire----" "You needn't worry," said Peter dryly. "You see, it's your money." Beth gave a deep sigh. "I can't help it. I _would_ like to have a sport coat and a _cerise_ veil like Peggy wears." "You shall have 'em. What else?" "Some pretty patent leather shoes with rhinestone buckles----" "Yes----" "And a black velvet hat and nice _lingerie_----" (Beth pronounced it lingery). "Of course. And the piano----" "Oh, yes. A piano and books--lots of books." "And a red automobile?" "Oh, I wouldn't dare wish for that." "Why not? It's just as easy to wish for an automobile as a piano." "Yes, I suppose so." She became immediately grave again. "But I can't seem to believe it all. I'm afraid." "Of what?" "Of Hawk Kennedy. I feel that he's going to make trouble for us all, Mr. Nichols. I'm afraid. I always seem to feel things before they happen. Any man who could do what he did--murder!" "There will be some way to get around him." "But it's dangerous. I don't feel I've got the right to let you do this for me." "Oh, yes, you have. I'd do it anyhow. It's only justice." "But suppose he--suppose----" "What----?" "He might kill you, too." Peter laughed. "Not a chance. You see, I wasn't born to die a violent death. If I had been, I'd have been dead months ago." "Oh--the war, you mean?" she asked soberly. "Yes--the war. Everything is tame after that. I'm not afraid of Hawk Kennedy." "But there's danger just the same." "I hope not. I won't cross that bridge until I come to it." Beth was silent for a long moment and then with a glance at the clock on the mantel slowly gathered her music, aware of his voice close at her ear. "And if I do this, Beth,--if I get what belongs to you, will you believe that I have no motive but friendship for you, that I care for you enough to want you to forgive me for what has happened?" He had caught her fingers in his own but she did not try to release them. "Oh, don't speak of that--_please_! I want to forget you--that day." "Can't you forget it more easily by remembering me as I am now, Beth? See. I want you as much now as I did then--just as much, but I cannot have you until you give yourself to me." What did he mean? She wasn't sure of him. If marriage was what he meant, why didn't he say so? Marriage. It was such an easy word to say. Her fingers struggled in his. "Please, Mr. Nichols," she gasped. "You mean that you won't--that you don't care enough----?" "I--I'm not sure of you----" "I love you, Beth----" "You _say_ so----" "I do--better than anything in the world." "Enough to--enough to...?" She was weakening fast. She felt her danger in the trembling of her fingers in his. Why didn't he finish her question for her? Marriage. It was such a little word. And yet he evaded it and she saw that he meant to evade it. "Enough to have you almost in my arms and yet hardly to touch you--enough to have your lips within reach of mine and yet not to take them. Isn't that what you wanted, Beth? Gentleness, tenderness----" She flung away from him desperately. "No--no. I want nothing--nothing. Please! You don't want to understand." And then with an effort she found her poise. "Things must be as they are. Nothing else. It's getting late, I must go." "Beth--Not yet. Just a minute----" "No." But she did not go and only stood still, trembling with irresolution. He knew what she wanted him to say. There could be no middle ground for Beth. She must be all to him or nothing. Marriage. It was the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch who had evaded this very moment while Peter Nichols had urged him to it. And it was Peter Nichols who knew that any words spoken of marriage to Beth Cameron would be irrevocable, the Grand Duke Peter (an opportunist) who urged him to utter them, careless of consequences. And there stood Beth adorable in her perplexity, conjuring both of him to speak. It was Peter Nichols who met the challenge, oblivious of all counsels of pride, culture, vainglory and hypocrisy. This was his mate, a sweeter lady than any he had ever known. "Beth," he whispered. "I love you. Nothing in the world makes any difference to me but your happiness." He came to her and caught her in his arms, while she still struggled away from him. "I want you. It doesn't matter who I am or who you are. I want you to----" Beth suddenly sprung away from him, staring at a figure which stood in the doorway as a strident, highly pitched voice cut in sharply on Peter's confession. "Oh, excuse _me_! I didn't mean to intrude." It was Miss Peggy McGuire in her _cerise_ veil and her sport suit, with hard eyes somewhat scandalized by what she had seen, for Peter was standing awkwardly, his arms empty of their prize, who had started back in dismay and now stood with difficulty recovering her self-possession. As neither of them spoke Miss McGuire went on cuttingly, as she glanced curiously around the Cabin. "So this is where you live? I seem to have spoiled your party. And may I ask who----" and her eyes traveled scornfully over Beth's figure, beginning at her shoes and ending at her flushed face--"I think I've seen you before----" "Miss McGuire," said Peter quietly, "This is Miss Cameron----" "Oh, yes--the kitchen maid." "Miss Beth Cameron," insisted Peter frigidly, "who has just done me the honor of promising to marry me." "Oh! I see----" Beth stared from one to the other, aware of the meaning of the visitor's manner and of Peter's reply. "That is not true," she said very quietly, her deep voice vibrant with emotion. "I come here often. Mr. Nichols is teaching me music. I am very proud of his friendship. But I did not promise to marry him." Peggy McGuire turned on her heel. "Well, it's almost time you did," she said insultingly. Peter, now pale and cold with fury, reached the door before her and stood blocking the passageway. "Miss McGuire, I'll trouble you to be more careful in addressing my guests," he said icily. "Let me pass----" "In a moment." "You'd dare----?" "I would like you to understand that this cabin is mine--while I am in Black Rock. Any guest here comes at my invitation and honors me by accepting my hospitality. But I reserve the privilege of saying who shall come and who shall not. I hope I make myself clear----" And Peter bowed low and then moved aside, indicating the door. "Good-night," he finished. Miss Peggy McGuire glared at him, red as a young turkey cock, her finishing school training just saving her from a tirade. "Oh, you! We'll see about this----" and dashed past him out of the door and disappeared into the darkness. Peter followed her with his angry gaze, struggling for his self-control, and at last turned into the room toward Beth, who now stood a smiling image turned into stone. "Why did you deny what I said, Beth?" he pleaded. "It wasn't the truth. I never promised to marry you. You never asked me to." "I _would_ have asked you. I ask you now. I _was_ asking you when that little fool came in----" "Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't. Maybe I'm a little hard of hearin'. But I'm not goin' to make _that_ an excuse for my bein' here----" "I don't understand----" "It's just that I came here because I wanted to come and because you wanted me. People have been talkin'. Let them talk. Let _her_ talk----" "She will. You can be pretty sure of that." Peter was pacing up and down the room, his hands behind him. "If she'd been a man----" he was muttering. "If she'd only been a man." Beth watched him a moment, still smiling. "Oh, I got what she meant--she was just tryin' to insult me." She laughed. "Seems as if she'd kind of succeeded. I suppose I ought to have scratched her face for her. I think I would have--if she'd just stayed a minute longer. Funny too, because I always used to think she was so sweet." Peter threw his arms wildly into the air and exploded. "Sweet! Sweet! _That_ girl! Yes, if vinegar is. She'll tear your reputation to shreds." Beth had stopped smiling now and leaned against the wall, her chin lowered. "I reckon it serves me right. I hadn't any business to be comin' here--not at night, anyway." "Oh, Beth," he pleaded, catching her hands. "Why couldn't you have let things be?" She struggled a little. And then, "Let _her_ think I was _engaged_ to you when I wasn't?" she gasped. "But we are, Beth, dear. Say we are, won't you?" "Not when we're not." "Beth----!" "You should have spoken sooner, if you'd really meant it. Oh, I know what it is. I've always known there's a difference between us." "No--not unless you make it." "Yes. It was there before I was born. You were brought up in a different kind of life in a different way of thinkin' from mine----" "What has that got to do with it?" "Everything. It's not my fault. And maybe I'm a little too proud. But I'm straight----" "Don't, Beth----" He put his arm around her but she disengaged herself gently. "No, let me finish. Maybe you wanted me. I guess you did. But not that much--not enough to speak out--and you were too straight to lie to me. I'm thankful for that----" "But I _have_ spoken, Beth," he insisted, taking her by the elbows and holding her so that he could look into her eyes. "I've asked you to--to be my wife. I ask you now. Is that clear?" Her eyes evaded him and she laughed uneasily. "Yes, it's clear--and--and your reason for it----" "I love you----" "A little, maybe. But I'll marry no man just to save my face--and his." But he caught her close to him, finding a new joy in his momentous decision. She struggled still, but he would not be denied. "Yes, you will," he whispered. "You've got to marry me whether you want to or not. You're compromised." "I don't care." "Oh, yes, you do. And you love me, Beth." "I don't love you----" "You do. And I'm going to marry you whether you want it or not." "Oh, _are_ you?" "Yes." "When?" "Soon." He kissed her. She didn't resist him. Resistance was useless. He had won. "Beth, dear," he went on. "I couldn't lie to you. I'm glad you knew that. And I couldn't hurt you. I think I've always loved you--from the first." "I too--I too," she whispered. "I couldn't help it." "I think I knew that too----" "No, no. You couldn't----" "Yes. It was meant to be. You've given a new meaning to life, torn from its very roots a whole rotten philosophy. Oh, you don't know what I mean--except that nobility is in the mind, beauty in the heart. Nothing else matters." "No. It doesn't," she sighed. "You see, I--I do believe in you." "Thank God! But you know nothing of me--nothing of my past----" "I don't care what your past has been or who you are. You're good enough for me. I'm satisfied----" He laughed joyously at the terms of her acquiescence. "Don't you want to know what I've been--who I am----?" "No. It wouldn't make any difference--not now." "I'll tell you some day." "I'll take a chance on that. I'm not afraid." "And whatever I am--you'll marry me?" "Yes. Whatever--you--are----" While he smiled down at her she straightened in his arms and gently released herself, glancing guiltily at the clock. "I--I must be going now," she whispered. And so through the quiet forest they went to Black Rock village, hand in hand. CHAPTER XVI IDENTIFICATION The sudden and unexpected arrival of Miss Peggy McGuire upon the scene had been annoying. That young person was, as Peter knew, a soulless little snob and materialist with a mind which would not be slow to put the worst possible construction upon the situation. Of course as matters stood at the close of that extraordinary evening of self-revelations, it did not matter a great deal what Peggy McGuire thought or said or did, for nothing could hurt Beth now. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch had capitulated and Peter Nichols gloried in his victory over inherited tradition. He had no regrets and he had made his choice, for Beth was what he wanted. She completed him. She was effulgent,--even in homespun. A little tinsel more or less could make no difference in Beth. Those of his own class who would not accept her might go hang for all he cared. Still Peter had rather that almost any one but Peggy should have come upon the scene, and Beth's frankness had given her a handle for a scandal, if she chose to make one. Beth cared nothing, he knew, for her soul was greater than his, but Peter's anger still smoldered at the words that had been used to Beth. He did not fear complications with McGuire, nor did he court them, but he knew how this daughter had been brought up, spoiled and pampered to the very limits of McGuire's indulgence and fortune, and he couldn't help holding her up in comparison with Beth, much to Peggy's detriment. For Beth was a lady to her finger tips, born to a natural gentility that put to confusion the mannerisms of the "smart" finishing school which had not succeeded in concealing the strain of a plebeian origin, and Beth's dropped g's and her quaint inversions and locutions were infinitely more pleasing to Peter than Miss Peggy's slang and self-assurance, which reflected the modernity of the fashionable hotel tea-room. Fortunately, Jonathan K. McGuire, who had returned from the seashore the night before, was not disposed to take his daughter's animadversions too seriously and when Peter announced his engagement to the niece of his housekeeper he made no comment further than to offer his congratulations. He did not even know her name and when McGuire was told that it was Beth Cameron, Peter did not miss his slight start of inquiry. But of course, having only owned his acres of woodland for half a dozen years, he knew little as to the origins of the inhabitants of Black Rock and as Peter said nothing at that moment he asked no questions and only listened to the forester's account of the progress of the work and of the difficulties experienced in attempting to complete the timber-contract. There was no way of improving the labor situation and a visit to the camp proved to him that Peter had done all that could be expected with the poor material at hand. On the way back they stopped at the Cabin and Peter showed him the letter from Hawk Kennedy. And there for a while they sat discussing plans to outwit the enemy and draw his sting. It was going to be no easy task and could only be accomplished by Peter's apparent compliance with Kennedy's wishes in throwing in his lot with Hawk and simulating an enmity for his employer. McGuire nodded his head and listened soberly. The rest at the seashore had done him good and he was disposed to meet the situation with courage, reflecting Peter's own attitude of confidence and optimism, admitting that his confession to Peter had lifted a weight from his shoulders and given him the spirit to meet the issue, whatever it might be. "You see," he said at last, "if the worst comes I'm in a pretty bad hole. But it was the shock of meeting Hawk after all these years that took the courage out of me at first. I wasn't quite right in my head for a while. I'd have killed him gladly and gotten away with it perhaps--but I'm glad now that things turned out the way they did. I've got no blood on my hands--that's one thing--whatever I signed. I've been thinking a good deal since I've been away. If I signed that fake confession Hawk Kennedy signed it too. He won't dare to produce it except as a last resort in desperation, to drag me down with him if he fails. We can string him along for a while before he does that and if he falls for your game we may be able to get the paper away from him. You've thought of something, Nichols?" he asked. "Yes, of several things," said Peter slowly. "I'm going to try diplomacy first. If that doesn't work, then something else more drastic." McGuire rose at last and took up his hat. "I don't know how to thank you for what you've done, Nichols," he said awkwardly. "Of course if--if money will repay you for this sort of service, you can count on my doing what you think is right." Peter rose and walked to the window, looking out. "I was coming to that, Mr. McGuire," he said gravely. McGuire paused and laid his hat down again. "Before you went away," Peter went on, turning slowly toward his employer, "you told me that you had never made any effort to discover the whereabouts of any of the relatives of Ben Cameron. But I inferred from what you said that if you _did_ find them, you'd be willing to do your duty. That's true, isn't it?" McGuire examined him soberly but agreed. "Yes, that's true. But why do you bring this question up now?" "I'll explain in a moment. Mr. McGuire, you are said to be a very rich man, how rich I don't know, but I think you'll be willing to admit to me, knowing what I do of your history, that without the 'Tarantula' mine and the large sum it brought you you would never have succeeded in getting to your present position in the world of finance." "I'll admit that. But I don't see----" "You will in a minute, sir----" "Go on." "If I have been correctly informed, you sold out your copper holdings in Madre Gulch for something like half a million dollars----" Peter paused for McGuire's comment. He made none. But he had sunk into his chair again and was listening intently. "The interest on half a million dollars, even at six per cent, if compounded, would in fifteen years amount with the principal to a considerable sum." "Ah, I see what you're getting at----" "You will admit that what I say is true?" "Yes----" "You'll admit also, if you're reasonable, that the money which founded your great fortune was as a matter of fact not yours but Ben Cameron's----?" "But why speak of him now?" muttered the old man. "Do you admit this?" McGuire frowned and then growled, "How can I help admitting it, since you know the facts? But I don't see----" "Well then, admitting that the 'Tarantula' mine was Ben Cameron's and not yours or Hawk Kennedy's, it seems clear that if any of Ben Cameron's heirs should turn up unexpectedly, they might claim at least a share of what should have been their own." McGuire had started forward in his chair, his gaze on Peter's face, as the truth was suddenly borne in upon him. "You mean, Nichols, that----." He paused and gasped as Peter nodded. "I mean that Ben Cameron's only child, a daughter, lives here at Black Rock--the niece of your housekeeper--Mrs. Bergen----" "Miss Cameron--My God!" McGuire fell back in his chair, staring at Peter, incapable of further speech. "Beth Cameron," said Peter gently, "the lady who has done me the honor of promising to become my wife----" "But how do you know?" gasped McGuire. "There must be some mistake. Are you sure you----" He broke off and then a sly smile curled at the corners of his lips. "You know, Nichols, Cameron is not an unusual name. It's quite possible that you're--er--mistaken." "No. I'm quite sure there's no mistake. I think the facts can be proved--that is, of course, if you're willing to help to establish this claim and to admit it when established. Otherwise I intend to establish it without your assistance--as an act of justice and of--er--retribution." McGuire watched his superintendent's face for a while before replying. And then, briefly, "What are the facts on which you base this extraordinary statement?" he asked. "I'll present those facts when the time comes, Mr. McGuire," said Peter at a venture. "I don't think it will be a difficult matter to identify the murdered man. He wrote home once or twice. He can be traced successfully. But what I would like to know first is what your disposition toward his daughter will be when the proper proofs are presented." "_If_ they're presented," said McGuire. "Will you answer me?" "It would seem time enough to answer then. I'll do the right thing." "Meaning what?" "Money enough to satisfy her." "That won't do. She must have what is hers by right. Her price is one million dollars," said Peter quietly. McGuire started up. "You're dreaming," he gasped. "It's her money." "But I developed that mine." "It was her mine that you developed." McGuire stopped by the window and turned. "And if I refuse----?" "I don't think you will----" The two men stared at each other, but Peter had the whip hand--or McGuire thought he had, which was quite sufficient. "Will you help me to perform this act of justice?" Peter went on calmly. "It's the only thing to do, Mr. McGuire. Can't you see that?" McGuire paced the floor heavily a few times before replying. And then, "I've got to think this thing over, Nichols. It's all so very sudden--a million dollars. My God! man, you talk of a million as if it grew on the trees." He stopped abruptly before the fireplace and turned to Peter. "And where does Hawk Kennedy come in on this?" "Beth Cameron's claim comes before his--or yours," said Peter quietly. "Whatever happens to either of you--it's not her fault." Peter hadn't intended a threat. He was simply stating the principal thought of his mind. But it broke McGuire's front. He leaned upon the armchair and then fell heavily into it, his head buried in his hands. "I'll do--whatever you say," he groaned at last, "but you've got to get me out of this, Nichols. I've got to have that paper." Peter poured out a drink of the whisky and silently handed it to his employer. "Come, Mr. McGuire," he said cheerfully, "we'll do what we can. There'll be a way to outwit Hawk Kennedy." "I hope to God there is," muttered McGuire helplessly. "I'll make a bargain with you." "What?" asked McGuire helplessly. "If I get the confession from Kennedy, you give Beth Cameron the money I ask for." "No publicity?" "None. I give you my word on it." "Well," muttered the old man, "I guess it's coming to her. I'll see." He paused helplessly. "A million dollars! That's a big sum to get together. A big price--but not too big to clear this load off my conscience." "Good. I'm glad you see it in this way." The old man turned shrewdly. "But I've got to have the proofs----" "Very well. If you're honest in your intentions you'll help me confirm the evidence." "Yes," said the other slowly. "I'll do what I can." "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked like----" "I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire. "Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his question. But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him triumphantly. "You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save asking a lot of questions." At last McGuire threw up his hands. "Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was missing all right enough." "Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen." There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the mien of a broken man and moved toward the door. "All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I--I'll do mine." "Very good, sir. You can count on me. If that fake agreement is still in existence, I'll get it for you. If it has been destroyed----" "I'll have to have proof of that----" "Won't you leave that in my hands?" McGuire nodded, shook Peter's hand and wandered out up the path in the direction of Black Rock House. From the first, Peter had had no doubt that the murdered man was Beth's father, but he had to admit under McGuire's questioning that there might still be a difficulty in tracing the vagrant from the meager history of his peregrinations that Mrs. Bergen had been able to provide. McGuire's attitude in regard to the absent little finger had been really admirable. Peter was thankful for that little finger, and for McGuire's honesty. There was no doubt in his mind now--if any had existed--who Ben Cameron's murderer was. The affair was simplified amazingly. With Beth's claim recognized, Peter could now enter heart and soul into the interesting business of beating Hawk Kennedy at his own game. He would win--he must win, for the pitiful millionaire and for Beth. And so, jubilantly, he made his way to Black Rock village to fill a very agreeable engagement that he had, to take supper (cooked and served by her own hands) with Miss Beth Cameron. He found that Beth had tried to prevail upon Aunt Tillie to be present but that the arrival of the McGuire family at Black Rock House had definitely prevented the appearance of their chaperon. Peter's appetite, however, suffered little diminution upon that account and he learned that singing was not Beth's only accomplishment. The rolls, as light as feathers and steaming hot, were eloquent of her skill, the chicken was broiled to a turn, the creamed potatoes delicious, and the apple pie of puff-paste provoked memories of the Paris Ritz. Aunt Tillie's best tablecloth and family silver--old, by the looks of it--had been brought into requisition and a bunch of goldenrod and purple asters graced the centerpiece. And above it all presided Beth, her face aflame from the cookstove, gracious and more than lovable in her pride and self-consciousness. When the supper was finished, Peter helped her to clear away the things and insisted on being allowed to help wash the dishes. But to this Beth demurred for they were of Aunt Tillie's blue colonial china set and not to be trusted to impious hands. But she let Peter sit in the kitchen and watch her (which was quite satisfactory) and even spared him a kiss or two at propitious intervals. Then when all things had been set to rights they went into the little parlor and sat on the worn Victorian plush-covered sofa. There was much to talk about, matters of grave importance that concerned themselves alone, explanations to be made, hopes to be expressed, and Beth's affair with McGuire to be discussed in all its phases. Peter told her nothing of his rank or station in life, saving that revelation for a later moment. Was not the present all-sufficient? And hadn't Beth told him and didn't she tell him again now that she believed in him and that "no matter what" she loved him and was his, for ever after, Amen. She didn't care who he was, you see. And when the important business of affirming those vows was concluded again and again, the scarcely less important business of Beth's future was talked over with a calmness which did much credit to Beth's control of the situation. Peter brought out Hawk Kennedy's letter and they read it together, and talked about it, Peter explaining his intention to acquiesce in Hawk's plan. Then Peter told of his conversation with McGuire and of the proof of Ben Cameron's identity which the old man had honestly admitted. "It looks very much, Beth," said Peter at last, with a smile, "as though you were going to be a very wealthy young woman." "Oh, Peter," she sighed (the elimination of formal appellations had been accomplished during the earlier stages of the repast), "Oh, Peter, I hope it isn't going to bring us unhappiness." "Unhappiness! Why, Beth!" "Oh, I don't know. It seems to me that people with a lot of money always look unhappy wantin' _to want_ somethin'." He laughed. "The secret of successful wanting is only to want the things you can get." "That's just the trouble. With a million dollars I'll get so much more than I want. And what then----?" "You'll have to start all over again." "No," she said quietly. "I won't. If wantin' things she can't buy makes a girl _hard_, like Peggy McGuire, I think I'd rather be poor." Peter grew grave again. "Nothing could ever make you like Peggy McGuire," he said. "I might be--if I ever get into the habit of thinkin' I was somethin' that I wasn't." "You'll never be a snob, Beth, no matter how much money you have." "I hope not," she said with a laugh. "My nose turns up enough already." And then, wistfully, "But I always _did_ want a _cerise_ veil." "I've no doubt you'll get it, a _cerise_ veil--mauve, green and blue ones too. I'll be having to keep an eye on you when you go to the city." She eyed him gravely and then, "I don't like to hear you talk like that." But he kept to his topic for the mere delight of hearing her replies. "But then you might see somebody you liked better than me." She smiled at him gently. "If I'd 'a' thought that I wouldn't 'a' picked you out in the first place." "Then you did pick me out. When?" "H-m. Wouldn't you like to know!" "Yes. At the Cabin?" "No----" "At McGuire's----?" "No-o. Before that----" "When----" She blushed very prettily and laughed. "Down Pickerel River road." "Did you, Beth?" "Yes. I liked your looks. You _do_ smile like you meant it, Peter. I said to myself that anybody that could bow from the middle like you was good enough for me." "Now you're making fun of me." "Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!" "I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will." "I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew about the money." "You did know, then----" "Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so." Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him--made it seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them? "I--I was not good enough for you," he muttered. She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them--took them away and gave him her lips. "I'll hear no more of _that_, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're good enough for me----" Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the _novaya jezn_ that his people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New life--happiness--with a mate ... his woman--soon to be his wife--whether Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth...? There was no title of nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in his heart. His blood surging, he ran along the log at the crossing and up the path to the Cabin, where a surprise awaited him. For he found the lamp lighted, and, seated complacently in Peter's easy chair, stockinged feet toward the blaze of a fresh log, a bottle at his elbow, was Hawk Kennedy. CHAPTER XVII PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR Peter entered and stood by the door, startled from his rhapsody by the appearance of the intruder, who had made himself quite at home, regardless of the fact that the final words of their last meeting had given no promise of a friendship which would make his air of easy familiarity acceptable to Peter, whose first impulse moved him to anger, fortunately controlled as he quickly remembered how much hung upon the assumption of an amicable relationship with McGuire's arch enemy. Peter hadn't replied to Hawk's letter which had indicated that some weeks might elapse before Black Rock received another of his visitations. The speculations in Peter's mind as to the change in his visitor's plans and the possible causes for them may have been marked in his face, for Hawk grinned at him amiably and rose and offered his hand with an air of assurance. "Wondering why I dropped in on you so unexpected-like? Let's say that I got tired of staring at the lonely grandeur of Pike's Peak, _mon gars_, or that the lady who gave me the pleasure of her society skipped for Denver with a younger man, or that the high altitude played Billy-be-damned with my nerves, and you'll have excuse enough. But the fact is, Pete, I _was_ a bit nervous at being so long away from the center of financial operations, and thought I'd better come right on and talk to you." "I got your letter," said Peter calmly, "I hadn't answered it yet----" "I thought it better to come for my answer." "I've been thinking it over----" "Good. It will be worth thinkin' over. You'll bless the day Jim Coast ran athwart your course." "You seem to be taking a good deal for granted." "I do. I always do. Until the present opportunity it was about the only thing I got a chance to take. You wouldn't of done me a good turn that night, if you hadn't been O.K. Will you have a drink of your own? It's good stuff--ten years in the wood, I see by the label, and I'm glad to get it, for whisky is scarcer than hen's teeth between this and the Rockies." As Peter nodded he poured out the drinks and settled down in Peter's chair with the air of one very much at home. "Well, Pete, what's yer answer to be?" he said at last. "You weren't any too polite when I left here. But I didn't think you'd turn me down altogether. And you're straight. I know that. I've been countin' on your sense of justice. How would _you_ like to be treated the way _I_ was treated by Mike McGuire?" "I wouldn't like it." "You just bet you wouldn't. You wouldn't stand for it, _you_ wouldn't. I've got justice on my side and I've got the law--if I choose to use it--but I'd rather win this case as man to man--without its getting into the newspapers. That wouldn't matter much to a poor man like me, but it would make a heap of difference to a man who stands where McGuire does." "That's true." "Yes. And he knows it. He hasn't got a leg to stand on." Kennedy paused and looked Peter over coolly. Peter had been studying the situation critically, playing his game with some care, willing to placate his visitor and yet taking pains not to be too eager to gain his confidence. So he carefully lighted his cigarette while he debated his course of action. "What makes you think that I'm in a different mood now from when you left here?" "Haven't I told you? Because I believe that you know that right's right and wrong's wrong." "But I told you that I didn't want to have anything to do with the case." "True for you. But you will when I've finished talking to you." "Will I?" "You will if you're not a fool, which you ain't. I always said you had somethin' between your ears besides ivory. You don't like to stay poor any more than anybody else. You don't have to. A good half of McGuire's money is mine. If it hadn't been for me helpin' to smell that copper out he'd of been out there grub-stakin' yet an' that's a fact. But I'm not goin' to be too hard on him. I'm no hog. I'm goin' to let him down easy. What's a million more or less to him? It might pinch him a little here and there sellin' out securities he had a fancy for, but in a year or so he'd have it all back and more, the way he works. Oh, I know. I've found out a bit since I've been away. And he'll come across all right, when he hears what I've got to say to him." "Why don't you go to him direct?" asked Peter. "And have him barricadin' the house and shootin' promiscuous at me from the windows? Not on your life. I know what I'm about. This thing has got to be done quiet. There's no use stirring up a dirty scandal to hurt his reputation for honest dealin' in New York. Even as it is, the story has got around about the mystery of Black Rock. No use makin' talk. That's why I want you. You stand ace high with the old man. He'll listen to you and we'll work the game all right and proper." "But suppose he won't listen to me." "Then we'll put the screws on." "What screws?" Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically. "I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you stand in the matter." Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. "He ought to do the right thing," he said slowly. "He will--never you fear. But can I count on _you_, Pete?" "What do you want me to do?" asked Peter after a moment. "Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you with me sure enough--hope I may die--cross my heart?" "If you'll make it worth my while," said Peter cautiously. "A hundred thousand. How's that?" "It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do yourself." "Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no mistake----" "Well--I'm listening." A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face--a narrowing of the eyelids, a drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a sharp glance. "If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said. Peter only laughed at him. "I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do without me--go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know." The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once. "Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the truth--even if it gives away my hand." "Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently. He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty--so Peter got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one. "Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much difference to you." "A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained. "Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him. "I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire--about how we got that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the real part--nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that--and he wouldn't tell if it was the last thing he said on earth." "Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?" Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to an impressive whisper. "Crooked as Hell, Pete--crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire was a murderer--would you?" "A murderer----!" Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine--stole it from the poor guy who had staked out his claim. Mike killed him----" "You don't mean----?" "Yes, sir. Killed him--stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?" "McGuire--a murderer----!" "Sure. Nice sort of a boss you've got! And he could swing for it if I didn't hold my tongue." "This is serious----" "You bet it is--if he don't come across. Now I guess you know why he was so cut up when I showed up around here. I've got it on him all right." "Can you prove it?" Kennedy rubbed his chin for a moment. "I could but I don't want to. You see--Pete----" He paused again and blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see--in a manner of speakin'--he's got it on me too." And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own. Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the interesting adventurer of the _Bermudian_, Jim Coast had been slowly changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end that would lead. "You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?" "McGuire's got his--here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk. "How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest. "Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for 'zecutors to look over?" "And where's yours?" asked Peter. He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts, but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter unpleasantly. "That'sh _my_ business," he said with a sneer. "Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this." Kennedy grinned. "Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then we'll have fortune in--hic--nutshell." The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged. "I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society. Suppose I refuse?" "Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened. Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh--nice lettersh. One of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business, _pronto_." "Yes, it might," admitted Peter ruminatively. "Sure it will--but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?" he asked. Peter was silent for a moment. And then, "I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's," he said. "They're exactly alike, you say--both incriminating. And if you've got your paper handy----" Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another glass of whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged. "No use, Pete," he said huskily. "I said I had paper and I _have_ paper handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that floatin' roun' universh with _my_ name signed to it." "I don't blame you," said Peter dryly. Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to pour out a new glassful. "Goo' whisky this--goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll get pater, Peep--I mean Peter pape--Oh H---- Paper. _You_ know." "I'll have to think about it, Jim." "Can't think when yer drunk, Pete," he muttered with an expiring grin. "To-morr'. 'Nother drink an' then we'll go sleep. Don't mind my sleepin' here, Pete. Nice plache shleep. Goo' old shleep...." Peter paused in the act of pouring out another drink for him and then at a sound from Kennedy set the bottle down again. The man suddenly sprawled sideways in the chair, his head back, snoring heavily. Peter watched him for a moment, sure that he couldn't be shamming and then looked around the disordered room. Hawk's overcoat and hat lay on the bed. On tiptoe Peter got up and examined them carefully, watching the man in the chair intently the while. Hawk stirred but did not awaken. Peter searched the overcoat inch by inch. There was nothing in the pockets, but a tin of tobacco and a Philadelphia newspaper. So Peter restored the articles and then hung the hat and coat on the nails behind the door. Hawk Kennedy did not move. He was dead drunk. The repulsive task of searching the recumbent figure now lay before him. But the game had been worth the candle. If the fateful confession was anywhere in Hawk's clothing Peter meant to find it and yet even now he hesitated. He put the whisky bottle away, cleared up the mess and then bodily picked his visitor up and carried him to the bed. Hawk muttered something in his sleep but fell prone and immediately was snoring stertorously. Then Peter went through his pockets methodically, removing an automatic pistol from his trousers, and examining all his papers carefully by the light of the lamp-a hotel bill receipted, some letters in a woman's hand, a few newspaper clippings bearing on the copper market, a pocketbook containing bills of large denomination, some soiled business cards of representatives of commercial houses, a notebook containing addresses and small accounts, a pass book of a Philadelphia bank, the address of which Peter noted. And that was all. Exhausting every resource Peter went over the lining of his coat and vest, inch by inch, even examined his underwear and his shoes and stockings. From the skin out, Hawk Kennedy had now no secrets from Peter. The incriminating confession was not on Hawk Kennedy's clothing. At last Peter gave up the search and went out into the air, and lighted his corncob pipe, puzzled at his failure. And yet, was it a failure after all? Hawk had eluded every attempt to discuss his copy of the confession. He had it "handy," he had said. A safe deposit box at the Philadelphia bank of which Peter had made record would be handy, but somehow Peter thought the chances were much against Kennedy's having put it there. Men of his type usually carry everything they possess about their persons. Peter remembered the ragged wallet of the _Bermudian_. What if after all these years of hardship the paper had been worn so that it was entirely illegible, or indeed that in Kennedy's many wanderings it had been lost? Either of these theories was plausible, but none provoked a decision. So after awhile Peter went indoors and opening all the windows and doors to cleanse the air, sat in the big chair and bundling himself in a blanket fell asleep. CHAPTER XVIII FACE TO FACE We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations the gods conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take our joys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, being wholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposed to question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangers which might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went home through the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there to smile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to assure herself that never since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more glad that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all the world for her. Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a dark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines, through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially with assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond the night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even to dream. Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing and polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away, the shiny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped. Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and dust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything was right with the world. It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the night before that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon the point of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of Aunt Tillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pounced upon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But when she drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope in color, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that it had a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held it in her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, now holding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then she sniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume--strange--like violet mixed with some kind of spice. She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, and scrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course--London was in England where Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from his pocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her the communication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was lucky that she had found it, for it might have slipped down behind the plush covering, and so have been definitely lost. Of course Peter had friends in London and of course they should wish to write to him, but for the first time it seemed curious to Beth that in all their conversations Peter had never volunteered any information as to the life that he had lived before he had come to Black Rock. She remembered now that she had told him that whatever his past had been and whoever he was, he was good enough for her. But the heliotrope envelope with the feminine handwriting and the strange odor immediately suggested queries along lines of investigation which had never before entered her thoughts. Who was the lady of the delicate script and the strange perfume? What was her relationship to Peter? And upon what topic was she writing to him? Beth slipped the note about a quarter of an inch out of its envelope until she could just see a line of the writing and then quickly thrust it in again, put the envelope on the mantel above the "parlor heater" and resolutely went on with her sweeping. From time to time she stopped her work and looked at it just to be sure that it was still there and at last took it up in her fingers again, a prey to a more lively curiosity than any she had ever known. She put the envelope down again and turning her back to it went into the kitchen. Of course Peter would tell her who this lady was if she asked him. And there was no doubt at all that it _was_ a lady who had written the letter, some one familiar with a delicate mode of existence and given to refinements which had been denied to Beth. It was this delicacy and refinement, this flowing inscription written with such careless ease and grace which challenged Beth's rusticity. She would have liked to ask Peter about the lady at once. But Peter would not be at the Cabin at this early hour of the morning, nor would Beth be able to see him until late this afternoon--perhaps not until to-night. Meanwhile, the note upon the mantel was burning its way into her consciousness. It was endued with a personality feminine, insidious and persuasive. No ladies of London affecting heliotrope envelopes had any business writing scented notes to Peter now. He was Beth's particular property.... When she went up to the second floor of the cottage a few minutes later she took the heliotrope letter with her and put it on her bureau, propped against the pincushion, while she went on with her work. And then, all her duties for the morning finished, she sat down in her rocking chair by the window, the envelope in her idle fingers, a victim of temptation. She looked out at the pine woods, her gaze afar, her guilty fingers slipping the letter out of its covering an inch, two inches. And then Beth opened Peter's heliotrope note and read it. At least, she read as much of it as she could understand,--the parts that were written in English--with growing amazement and incertitude. A good deal of the English part even was Greek to her, but she could understand enough to know that a mystery of some sort hung about the letter and about Peter, that he was apparently a person of some importance to the heliotrope lady who addressed him in affectionate terms and with the utmost freedom. Beth had learned in the French ballads which Peter had taught her that _ami_ meant friend and that _bel_ meant beautiful. And as the whole of the paragraph containing those words was written in English, Beth had little difficulty in understanding it. What had Peter to do with the cause of Holy Russia? And what was this danger to him from hidden enemies, which could make necessary this discretion and watchfulness in Black Rock? And the last sentence of all danced before Beth's eyes as though it had been written in letters of fire. "There is at least one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo." What right had the heliotrope lady's heart to beat fondly in memory of dear dead days with Peter Nichols at Galitzin or Zukovo or anywhere else? Who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? And what right had Peter given her to address him in terms of such affection? Anastasie! And now for the first time in her life, though to all outward appearance calm, Beth felt the pangs of jealousy. This letter, most of it in the queer-looking script (probably Russian) that she could not even read, in its strange references in English to things beyond her knowledge, seemed suddenly to erect a barrier between her and Peter that could never be passed, or even to indicate a barrier between them that had always existed without her knowledge. And if all of the parts of the letter that she could not understand contained sentiments like the English part that she _could_ understand, it was a very terrible letter indeed and indicated that this heliotrope woman (she was no longer "lady" now) had claims upon Peter's heart which came long before Beth's. And if this Anastasie--other women too.... Beth read the letter again and then slipped it back into its envelope, while she gazed out of the window at the pines, a frown at her brows and two tiny lines curving downward at the corners of her lips. She was very unhappy. But she was angry too--angry at the heliotrope woman, angry at Peter and angrier still at herself. In that moment she forgot that she had taken Peter Nichols without reference to what he was or had been. She had told him that only the future mattered and now she knew that the past was beginning to matter very much indeed. After a while she got up, and took the heliotrope letter to the bureau where she wrote upon the envelope rather viciously with a soft lead pencil, "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie." Then she slipped the letter into her waist and with an air of decision went down the stairs (the ominous parentheses still around her mouth), and made her way with rapid footsteps toward the path through the forest which led toward Peter's cabin. Beth was primitive, highly honorable by instinct if not by precept, but a creature of impulse, very much in love, who read by intuition the intrusion of what seemed a very real danger to her happiness. If her conscience warned her that she was transgressing the rules of polite procedure, something stronger than a sense of propriety urged her on to read, something stronger than mere curiosity--the impulse of self-preservation, the impulse to preserve that which was stronger even than self--the love of Peter Nichols. The scrawl that she had written upon the envelope was eloquent of her point of view, at once a taunt, a renunciation and a confession. "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie!" It was the intention of carrying the letter to Peter's cabin and there leaving it in a conspicuous position that now led her rapidly down the path through the woods. Gone were the tender memories of the night before. If this woman had had claims upon Peter Nichols's heart at the two places with the Russian names, she had the same claims upon them now. Beth's love and her pride waged a battle within her as she approached the Cabin. She remembered that Peter had told her last night that he would have a long day at the lumber camp, but as she crossed the log-jam she found herself hoping that by some chance she would find Peter still at home, where, with a fine dignity (which she mentally rehearsed) she would demand explanation, and listening, grant forgiveness. Or else ... she didn't like to think of the alternative. But instead of Peter, at the Cabin door in the early morning sunlight she found a strange man, sitting in a chair in the portico, smoking one of Peter's cigarettes, and apparently much at home. The appearance of the stranger was for a moment disconcerting, but Beth approached the familiar doorway, her head high, the heliotrope letter burning her fingers. She had intended to walk in at the door of the Cabin, place the letter in a conspicuous position where Peter could not fail to see it, and then return to her home and haughtily await Peter's arrival. But the presence of this man, a stranger in Black Rock, making free of Peter's habitation, evidently with Peter's knowledge and consent, made her pause in a moment of uncertainty. At her approach the man in the chair had risen and she saw that he was tall--almost as tall as Peter, that he had a hooked nose and displayed a set of irregular teeth when he smiled--which he did, not unpleasantly. There was something about him which repelled her yet fascinated at the same time. "Mr. Nichols has gone out?" Beth asked, for something to say. "Yes, Miss," said the stranger, blinking at her with his bleary eyes. "Mr. Nichols is down at the lumber camp--won't be back until night, I reckon. Anythin' I can do for ye?" "No, I----?" Beth hesitated. "I just wanted to see him--to leave somethin' for him." "I guess he'll be right sorry to miss you. Who shall I say called?" "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Beth, turning away. But she was now aware of a strange curiosity as to this person who sat with such an air of well-being in Peter's chair and spoke with such an air of proprietorship. The insistence of her own personal affair with Peter had driven from her mind all thoughts of the other matters suggested in the letter, of the possible dangers to Peter even here in Black Rock and the mysterious references to Holy Russia. This man who stood in Peter's portico, whoever he was, was not a Russian, she could see that at a glance and read it in his accents, but she was equally certain from his general character that he could be no friend of Peter's and that his business here was not of Peter's choosing. "If ye'd like to wait a while----" He offered her the chair, but Beth did not accept it. "Ye don't happen to be Miss Peggy McGuire, do ye?" asked the stranger curiously. "No," replied the girl. "My name is Beth Cameron." "Beth----?" "Cameron," she finished firmly. "Oh----" The stranger seemed to be examining her with a glowing interest, but his look was clouded. Beth had decided that until Peter came explaining she had no further possible interest either in him or his affairs, but in spite of this she found her lips suddenly asking, "Are you a friend of Mr. Nichols's?" The man in the portico grinned somberly. "Yes. I guess I am--an old friend--before he came to America." "Oh!" said Beth quietly. "You've known him a long time then?" "Ye might say so. We were buddies together." "Then you knew him in--in London?" The man grinned. "Can't say I did. Not in London. Why do you ask?" "Oh, I just wanted to know." The gaze of the stranger upon her was disquieting. His eyes seemed to be smoldering like embers just ready to blaze. She knew that she ought to be returning and yet she didn't want to go leaving her object unaccomplished, the dignity of her plan having already been greatly disturbed. And so she hesitated, curiosity at war with discretion. "Would you mind telling me your name?" she asked timidly. The man shrugged a shoulder and glanced away from her. "I reckon my name wouldn't mean much to you." "Oh--I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?" The stranger put his hands into his coat pockets and stared down at Beth with a strange intrusive kind of smile. "You and Pete seem kind of thick, don't ye?" he muttered. "Pete!" "Pete Nichols. That's his name, ain't it? Kind of thick, I'd say. I can't blame him though----" "You're mistaken," said Beth with dignity, "there's nothin' between Peter Nichols and me." And turning heel, Beth took a step away. "There! Put my foot in it, didn't I? I'm sorry. Don't go yet. I want to ask ye something." Beth paused and found that the stranger had come out from the portico and still stood beside her. And as her look inquired fearlessly, "It's about your name, Miss," he muttered, and then with an effort spoke the word savagely, as though it had been wrenched from him by an effort of will, "Cameron----? Your name's Cameron?" "Yes," said Beth, in some inquietude. "Common name in some parts--Cameron--not so common in others--not in Jersey anyway----" "I didn't know----" "Is yer father livin'?" he snapped. "No--dead. Many years ago. Out West." "Tsch!" he breathed, the air whistling between his teeth, "Out West, ye say--out West?" He stood in front of Beth now, his arms akimbo, his head bent forward under the stress of some excitement. Beth drew away from him, but he came forward after her, his gaze still seeking hers. "Yes--out West," said Beth haltingly. "Where?" he gasped. "I don't know----" "Was his name--was his name--Ben Cameron?" He shot the question at her with a strange fury, catching meanwhile at her arm. "Let me go----," she commanded. "You're hurtin' me." "Was it----?" "Yes. Let me go." The stranger's grip on her arm suddenly relaxed and while she watched his face in curiosity the glow in his eyes suddenly flickered out, his gaze shifting from side to side as he seemed to shrink away from her. From timidity at his roughness she found new courage in her curiosity at his strange behavior. What had this stranger to do with Ben Cameron? "What did you want to know for?" she asked him. But his bent brows were frowning at the path at his feet. He tried to laugh--and the sound of the dry cackle had little mirth in it. "No matter. I--I thought it might be. I guess ye'd better go--I guess ye'd better." And with that he sank heavily in Peter's chair again. But Beth still stood and stared at him, aware of the sudden change in his attitude toward her. What did it all mean? What were Peter's relations with this creature who behaved so strangely at the mention of her name? Why did he speak of Ben Cameron? Who was he? Who----? The feeling of which she had at first been conscious, at the man's evil leering smile which repelled her suddenly culminated in a pang of intuition. This man ... It must be ... Hawk Kennedy--the man who ... She stared at him with a new horror in the growing pallor of her face and Hawk Kennedy saw the look. It was as though some devilish psychological contrivance had suddenly hooked their two consciousnesses to the same thought. Both saw the same picture--the sand, the rocks, the blazing sun and a dead man lying with a knife in his back.... And Beth continued staring as though in a kind of horrible fascination. And when her lips moved she spoke as though impelled by a force beyond her own volition. "You--you're Hawk Kennedy," she said tensely, "the man who killed my father." "It's a lie," he gasped, springing to his feet. "Who told you that?" "I--I guessed it----" "Who told ye about Hawk Kennedy? Who told ye about him?" "No one----" "Ye didn't dream it. Ye can't dream a name," he said tensely. "Pete told ye--he lied to ye." "He didn't." But he had caught her by the wrist again and dragged her into the Cabin. She was thoroughly frightened now--too frightened even to cry out--too terrified at the sudden revelation of this man who for some days had been a kind of evil spirit in the background of her happiness. He was not like what she had thought he was, but he embodied an idea that was sinister and terrible. And while she wondered what he was going to do next, he pushed her into the armchair, locked the door and put the key into his pocket. "Now we can talk," he muttered grimly. "No chance of bein' disturbed--Pete ain't due for hours yet. So he's been tellin' _you_ lies about me. Has he? Sayin' _I_ done it. By G--, I'm beginnin' to see...." He leered at her horribly, and Beth seemed frozen into her chair. The courage that had been hers a moment ago when he had shrunk away from her had fled before the fury of his questions and the violence of his touch. She was intimidated for the first time in her life and yet she tried to meet his eyes, which burned wildly, shifting from side to side like those of a caged beast. In her terror she could not tell what dauntless instinct had urged her unless it was Ben Cameron's soul in agony that had cried out through her lips. And now she had not only betrayed Peter--but herself.... "I'm beginnin' to see. You and Pete--playin' both ends against the middle, with McGuire comin' down somethin' very handsome for a weddin' present and leavin' me out in the cold. Very pretty! But it ain't goin' to work out just that way--not that way at all." All of this he muttered in a wildly casual kind of a way, at no one in particular, as his gaze flitted from one object in the room to another, always passing over Beth almost impersonally. But in a moment she saw his gaze concentrate upon her with sudden eagerness. "He told ye I done it, did he? Well, I didn't," he cried in a strident voice. "I didn't do it. It was McGuire and I'll prove it, all right. McGuire. Pete can't fix _that_ on me--even if he wanted to. But he told _you_ or ye wouldn't of spoke like ye did. I guess maybe ye wouldn't of said so much if Pete had been here. But ye let the cat slip out of the bag all right. You and Pete--and maybe McGuire's with ye too--all against me. Is that so?... Can't yer speak, girl? Must ye sit there just starin' at me with yer big eyes? What are ye lookin' at? Are ye dumb?" "No, I'm not dumb," gasped Beth, struggling for her courage, aware all the while of the physical threat in the man's very presence. "Speak then. Tell me the truth. Pete said it was your money McGuire took--your money McGuire's got to make good to ye? Ain't that the truth?" "I won't answer." "Oh, yes, ye will. You'll answer all right. I'm not goin' to trifle. What did ye come here to see Pete about? What's that letter ye came to give him? Give it to me!" Beth clutched the heliotrope note to her bosom but Hawk Kennedy caught at her hands and tried to tear it away from her. It needed only this new act of physical violence to give Beth the courage of despair. She sprang to her feet eluding him but he caught her before she reached the window. She struck at him with her fists but he tore the letter away from her and hurled her toward the bed over which she fell breathless. There was no use trying to fight this man.... There was a cruelty in his touch which spoke of nameless things.... And so she lay motionless, nursing her injured wrists, trying desperately to think what she must do. Meanwhile, watching her keenly from the tail of his eye, Hawk Kennedy was reading the heliotrope letter, spelling out the English word by word. Fascinated, Beth saw the frown of curiosity deepen to interest and then to puzzled absorption. "Interestin'--very," she heard him mutter at last, as he glanced toward the bed. "Holy Russia. H----! What's this mean, girl? Who _is_ Peter Nichols? Answer me." "I--I don't know," she said. "Yes, ye do. Where did ye get this letter?" "He left it at--at my house last night." "Oh! _Your_ house! Where?" "In the village." "I see. An' this scrawl on the envelope--you wrote it----" Beth couldn't reply. He was dragging her through the very depths of humiliation. At her silence his lips curved in ugly amusement. "Anastasie!" he muttered. "Some queen that--with her purple paper an' all. And ye don't know who she is? Or who Pete is? Answer me!" "I--I don't know," she whispered. "I--I don't, really." "H-m! Well, he ain't what he's seemed to be, that's sure. He ain't what he's seemed to be to you and he ain't what he's seemed to be to me. But whoever he is he can't put anything over on _me_. We'll see about this." Beth straightened and sat up, watching him pace the floor in deep thought. There might be a chance that she could escape by the window. But when she started up he ordered her back roughly and she soon saw that this was impossible. At last he stopped walking up and down and stared at her, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, his brows drawn ominously together. It seemed that he had reached a decision. "You behave yourself an' do what I tell ye an' ye won't be hurt," he growled. "Wh-what are you goin' to do?" she gasped. "Nothin' much. Ye're just goin' with me--that's all." "W-where?" "That's my business. Oh, ye needn't be scared of any love makin'. I'm not on that lay this trip." He went to the drawer of Peter's bureau and took out some handkerchiefs. "But ye'd better be scared if ye don't do what I tell ye. Here. Stand up!" Beth shrank away from, him, but he caught her by the wrists and held her. "Ye're not to make a noise, d'ye hear? I can't take the chance." And while she still struggled desperately, he fastened her wrists together behind her. Then he thrust one of Peter's handkerchiefs in her mouth and securely gagged her. He wasn't any too gentle with her but even in her terror she found herself thanking God that it was only abduction that he planned. Hawk Kennedy went to the window and peered out up the path, then he opened the door and looked around. After a moment he came in quickly. "Come," he muttered, "it's time we were off." He caught her by the arm and helped her to her feet, pushing her out of the door and into the underbrush at the corner of the cabin. Her feet lagged, her knees were weak, but the grasp on her shoulder warned her of cruelties she had not dreamed of and so she stumbled on--on into the depths of the forest, Hawk Kennedy's hard hand urging her on to greater speed. CHAPTER XIX YAKIMOV REVEALS HIMSELF It was with some misgivings that Peter left his cabin, leaving Hawk Kennedy there to sleep off the effects of his potations, but the situation at the lumber camp was so hazardous that his presence was urgently required. Hawk had awakened early, very early, and very thirsty, but Peter had told him that there was no more whisky and threatened to throw over the whole affair if he didn't sober up and behave himself. And so, having exacted a promise from Hawk Kennedy to leave the Cabin when he had had his sleep out, Peter had gotten the "flivver" from McGuire's garage (as was his custom) and driven rapidly down toward the camp. He had almost reached the conclusion that the copy of the partnership agreement which Hawk had held as a threat over McGuire had ceased to exist--that it had been lost, effaced or destroyed. But he wanted to be more certain of this before he came out into the open, showed his hand and McGuire's and defied the blackmailer to do his worst. He felt pretty sure now from his own knowledge of the man that, desperate though he was in his intention to gain a fortune by this expedient, he was absolutely powerless to do evil without the signature of McGuire. The question as to whether or not he would make a disagreeable publicity of the whole affair was important to McGuire and had to be avoided if possible, for Peter had given his promise to bring the affair to a quiet conclusion. Until he could have a further talk with McGuire, he meant to lead Hawk Kennedy on to further confidences and with this end in view and with the further purpose of getting him away from the Cabin, had promised to meet him late that afternoon at a fork of the road to the lumber camp, the other prong of which led to a settlement of several shanties where Hawk had managed to get a lodging on the previous night and on several other occasions. In his talk with the ex-waiter he learned that on his previous visits the man had made a careful survey of the property and knew his way about almost as well as Peter did. It appeared that he also knew something of Peter's problems at the lumber camp and the difficulties the superintendent had already encountered in getting his sawed lumber to the railroad and in completing his fire-towers. Indeed, these difficulties seemed only to have begun again, and it was with great regret that Peter was obliged to forego the opportunity of seeing Beth that day, perhaps even that evening. But he had told her nothing of his troubles the night before, not wishing to cloud a day so fair for them both. The facts were these: Flynn and Jacobi, the men he had dismissed, had appeared again at the camp in his absence, bent on fomenting trouble, and Shad Wells, already inflamed against the superintendent, had fallen an easy prey to their machinations. Accidents were always happening at the sawmills, accidents to machinery and implements culminating at last in the blowing out of a tube of one of the boilers. It was this misfortune that had held the work up for several days until a spare boiler could be installed. Peter tried to find out how these accidents had happened, but each line of investigation led up a blind alley. Jesse Brown, his foreman, seemed to be loyal, but he was easy-going and weak. With many of his own friends among the workers both at the camp and mills he tried to hold his job by carrying water on both shoulders and the consequences were inevitable. He moved along the line of least resistance and the trouble grew. Peter saw his weakness and would have picked another man to supersede him, but there was no other available. The truth was that though the men's wages were high for the kind of work that they were doing, the discontent that they had brought with them was in the air. The evening papers brought word of trouble in every direction, the threatened railroad and steel strikes and the prospect of a coalless winter when the miners went out as they threatened to do on the first of November. At first Peter had thought that individually many of the men liked him. He had done what he could for their comfort and paid them the highest price justifiable, but gradually he found that his influence was being undermined and that the good-natured lagging which Peter had at first tried to tolerate had turned to loafing on the job, and finally to overt acts of rebellion. More men had been sent away and others with even less conscience had taken their places. Some of them had enunciated Bolshevist doctrines as wild as any of Flynn's or Jacobi's. Jonathan K. McGuire stood as a type which represented the hierarchy of wealth and was therefore their hereditary enemy. Peter in a quiet talk at the bunk-house one night had told them that once Jonathan K. McGuire had been as poor, if not poorer, than any one of them. But even as he spoke he had felt that his words had made no impression. It was what McGuire was _now_ that mattered, they told him. All this land, all this lumber, was the people's, and they'd get it too in time. With great earnestness, born of a personal experience of which they could not dream, Peter pointed out to them what had happened and was now happening in Russia and painted a harrowing picture of helplessness and starvation, but they smoked their pipes in silence and answered him not at all. They were not to be reasoned with. If the Soviet came to America they were willing to try it. They would try anything once. But Shad Wells was "canny" and Peter had never succeeded in tracing any of the accidents or any of the dissensions directly to his door. Without evidence against him Peter did not think it wise to send him out of camp, for many of the men were friendly to Shad and his dismissal was sure to mean an upheaval of sorts. Peter knew that Shad hated him for what had happened at the Cabin but that in his heart he feared to come out into the open where a repetition of his undoing in public might destroy his influence forever. So to Peter's face he was sullenly obedient, taking care to give the appearance of carrying out his orders, while as soon as Peter's back was turned he laughed, loafed and encouraged others to do the same. And for the last week Peter had not liked the looks of things. At the lumber camp the work was almost at a standstill, and the sawmills were silent. Jesse Brown had told him that Flynn and Jacobi had been at the bunk-house and that the men had voted him down when the foreman had tried to send them away. It was clear that some radical step would have to be taken at once to restore discipline or Peter's authority and usefulness as superintendent would be only a matter of hours. It was of all of these things that Peter thought as he bumped his way in the "flivver" over the corduroy road through the swampy land which led to the lower reserve, and as he neared the scene of these material difficulties all thought of Hawk Kennedy passed from his mind. There was the other danger too that had been one of the many subjects of the letter of Anastasie Galitzin, for Peter had no doubt now that the foreigner with the dark mustache who had followed him down from New York and who some weeks ago had been sent out of the camp was no other than the agent of the Soviets, who had forwarded to London the information as to his whereabouts. Peter had not seen this man since the day of his dismissal, but he suspected that he was in the plot with Flynn, Jacobi and perhaps Shad Wells to make mischief in the lumber camp. The opportunity that Peter sought to bring matters to a focus was not long in coming, for when he reached the sawmills, which had resumed desultory operations, he found Flynn and Jacobi, the "Reds," calmly seated in the office, smoking and talking with Shad Wells. Peter had left his "flivver" up the road and his sudden entrance was a surprise. The men got up sullenly and would have slouched out of the door but Peter closed it, put his back to it, and faced them. He was cold with anger and held himself in with difficulty, but he had taken their measure and meant to bring on a crisis, which would settle their status and his own, once and for all time. "What are you doing here?" he began shortly, eying Flynn. The Irishman stuck his hands into his pockets and shrugged impudently. "That's my business," he muttered. "H-m. You two men were discharged because you were incompetent, because you were getting money you didn't earn and because you were trying to persuade others to be as worthless and useless as yourselves. You were ordered off the property----" "Ye can't keep us off----" "I'll come to that in a moment. What I want to say to you now is this," said Peter, planting his barbs with the coolness of a matador baiting his bull. "Some men go wrong because they've been badly advised, some because they can't think straight, others because they'd rather go wrong than right. Some of you 'Reds' believe in what you preach, that the world can be made over and all the money and the land divided up in a new deal. You two don't. You don't believe in anything except getting a living without working for it--and trying to make honest men do the same. You, Jacobi, are only a fool--a cowardly fool at that--who hides behind the coat-tails of a man stronger than you----" "Look-a here, Mister----" "Yes, Flynn's your master, but he isn't mine. And he isn't the master of any man on this job while I'm superintendent----" "We'll see about that," said Flynn with a chuckle. "Yes, we will. Very soon. _Now_, as a matter of fact----" "How?" "By proving which is the better man--you or me----" "Oh, it's a fight ye mean?" "Exactly." The Irishman leered at him cunningly. "I'm too old a bird to be caught wit' that stuff--puttin' you wit' the right on yer side. We're afther sheddin' no blood here, Misther Nichols. We're on this job for peace an' justice fer all." "Then you're afraid to fight?" "No. But I'm not a-goin' to----" "Not if I tell you you're a sneak, a liar and a coward----" Flynn's jaw worked and his glance passed from Jacobi to Wells. "I'll make ye eat them names backwards one day, Misther Nichols--but not now--I'm here for a bigger cause. Stand away from the door." "In a moment. But first let me tell you this, and Shad Wells too. You're going out of this door and out of this camp,--all three of you. And if any one of you shows himself inside the limits of this property he'll have to take the consequences." "Meanin' what?" asked Wells. "Meaning _me_," said Peter, "and after me, the law. Now go." He stood aside and swung the door open with one hand, but he didn't take his eyes from them. They laughed in his face, but they obeyed him, filing out into the open, and strolled away. Peter had hoped to coax a fight out of Flynn, thinking that the Irish blood in him couldn't resist his taunts and challenge. But Flynn had been too clever for him. A defeat for Flynn meant loss of prestige, a victory possible prosecution. Either way he had nothing to gain. Perhaps he was just a coward like Jacobi or a beaten bully like Shad. Whatever he was Flynn seemed very sure of himself and Peter, though apparently master of the situation for the present, was conscious of a sense of defeat. He knew as Flynn did that no matter what forces he called to his aid, it was practically impossible to keep trespassers off a property of this size, and that, after all, the success of his logging operations remained with the men themselves. But he breathed more freely now that he had made his decision with regard to Shad Wells. He spent a large part of the morning going over the mills, getting the men together and giving them a little talk, then went up to the camp in search of Jesse Brown. The news of his encounter with Shad and the "Reds" had preceded him and he saw that trouble was brewing. Jesse Brown wagged his head in a deprecating way and tried to side-step the entire situation. But Peter had reached a point where he was tired of equivocation. "I say, Jesse," he said at last, "you've let things get into a pretty bad mess down here." "I'm a peaceable man, Mr. Nichols," said Jesse. "I've tried to steer this camp along easy-like, 'til this bit of woods is cleared up and here you go stirrin' up a hornet's nest about our ears." Peter frowned. "You know as well as I do that the men are doing just as they please. At the rate they're going they wouldn't have this section finished by Christmas. I'm paying them for work they don't do and you know it. I put you in here to see that McGuire gets what he's paying for. You haven't done it." "I've done the best I could," muttered Jesse. "That isn't the best I want. You knew Flynn and Jacobi were back in camp yesterday. Why didn't you tell me so?" "I can't do nothin'. They've got friends here." "And haven't you got friends here too? I sent those men out of camp. If they're here again I'll find the power to arrest them." "I'd advise you not to try that." "Why?" "They're stronger than you think." "I'll take my chances on that. But I want to know where you stand. Are you with me or against me?" "Well," said Jesse, rubbing his head dubiously, "I'll do what I can." "All right. We'll make a fresh start. Round up all hands. I'm going to talk to them at dinner time." Jesse glanced at him, shrugged and went out and Peter went into the office where he spent the intervening time going over the books. It was there that one of the clerks, a man named Brierly, brought forth from the drawer of his desk a small pamphlet which he had picked up yesterday in the bunk-house. Peter opened and read it. It was a copy of the new manifest of the Union of Russian Workers and though written in English, gave every mark of origin in the Lenin-Trotzky regime and was cleverly written in catch phrases meant to trap the ignorant. It proposed to destroy the churches and erect in their stead places of amusement for the working people. He read at random. "Beyond the blood-covered barricades, beyond all terrors of civil war, there already shines for us the magnificent, beautiful form of man, without a God, without a master, and full of authority." Fine doctrine this! The pamphlet derided the law and the state, and urged the complete destruction of private ownership. It predicted the coming of the revolution in a few weeks, naming the day, of a general strike of all industries which would paralyze all the functions of commerce. It was Bolshevik in ideal, Bolshevik in inspiration and it opened Peter's eyes as to the venality of the gentleman with the black mustache. Brierly also told him that whisky had been smuggled into the camp the night before and that a fire in the woods had luckily been put out before it had become menacing. Brierly was a discharged soldier who had learned something of the value of obedience and made no effort to conceal his anxiety and his sympathies. He voiced the opinion that either Flynn or Jacobi had brought in the liquor. Peter frowned. Jesse Brown had said nothing of this. The inference was obvious. At the dinner-shed, Peter was to be made aware immediately of the difficulty of the task that confronted him, for dour looks met him on all sides. There were a few men who sat near him whom he thought he might count on at a venture, but they were very few and their positions difficult. Some of the men still showed the effects of their drink and hurled epithets about the room, obviously meant for Peter's ear, but he sat through the meal patiently and then got to his feet and demanded their attention. As he began he was interrupted by hoots and cat-calls but he waited calmly for silence and seeing that they couldn't ruffle him by buffoonery they desisted after a moment. "Men, I'm not going to take much of your time," he said. "A short while ago I came down here and talked to you. Some of you seemed to be friendly toward me and those are the men I want to talk to now. The others don't matter." "Oh, don't they?" came a gruff voice from a crowd near the door. And another, "We'll see about that." Peter tried to find the speakers with his gaze for a moment and then went on imperturbably. "I'm going to talk to you in plain English, because some things have happened in this camp that are going to make trouble for everybody, trouble for me, trouble for McGuire, but more trouble for you." "That's what we're lookin' for--trouble----," cried the same voice, and Peter now identified it as Flynn's, for the agitator had come back and stolen in unawares. "Ah, it's you, Flynn," said Peter easily. "You've come back." And then to the crowd, "I don't think Flynn is likely to be disappointed if he's looking for trouble," he said dryly. "Trouble is one of the few things in this world a man can find if he looks for it." "Aye, mon, an' without lookin' for it," laughed a broad-chested Scot at Peter's table. "That's right. I met Flynn a while ago over in the office. I made him an offer. I said I'd fight him fair just man to man, for our opinions. He refused. I also told him he was a coward, a sneak and a liar. But he wouldn't fight--because he's what I said he was." "I'll show ye, Misther----," shouted Flynn, "but I ain't ready yet." "You'll be ready when this meeting is over. And one of us is going out of this camp feet first." "We'll see about that." "One of us will. And I think I'll do the seeing." A laugh went up around Peter, drowned immediately by a chorus of jeers from the rear of the room. But Peter managed to be heard again. "Well, _I_ didn't come on this job looking for trouble," he went on coolly. "I wanted to help you chaps in any way I could." ("The Hell you did.") "Yes, I did what I could for your comfort. I raised your wages and I didn't ask more than an honest day's work from any one of you. Some of you have stuck to your jobs like men, in spite of the talk you've heard all about you, and I thank you. You others," he cried, toward the rear of the room, "I've tried to meet in a friendly spirit where I could, but some of you don't want friendship----" ("Not with you, we don't.") "Nor with any one else----" Peter shouted back defiantly. "You don't know what friendship means, or you wouldn't try to make discontent and trouble for everybody, when you're all getting a good wage and good living conditions." ("That ain't enough!") Peter calmly disregarded the interruptions and went on. "Perhaps you fellows think I don't know what socialism means. I do. To the true socialist, socialism is nothing else but Christianity. It's just friendship, that's all. He believes in helping the needy and the weak. He believes in defending his own life and happiness and the happiness of others." ("That's true--that's right.") "And he believes that the world can be led and guided by a great brotherhood of humanity seeking just laws and equality for all men." (Conflicting cries of "That's not enough!" and "Let him speak!") "But I know what anarchy means too, because less than six months ago I was in Russia and I saw the hellish thing at work. I saw men turn and kill their neighbors because the neighbors had more than they had; I saw a whole people starving, women with children at the breast, men raging, ready to fly at one another's throats from hunger, from anger, from fear of what was coming next. That is what anarchy means." "What you say is a lie," came a clear voice in English, with a slight accent. A man had risen at the rear of the room and stood facing Peter. He was not very tall and he was not in working clothes, but Peter recognized him at once as the man with the dark mustache, the mysterious stranger who had followed him to Black Rock. Peter set his jaw and shrugged. He was aware now of all the forces with which he had to deal. "What does anarchy mean, then?" he asked coolly. "You know what it means," said the man, pointing an accusing finger at Peter. "It means only the end of all autocracy whether of money or of power, the destruction of class distinction and making the working classes the masters of all general wealth which they alone produce and to which they alone are entitled." A roar of approval went up from the rear of the room and cries of, "Go it, Bolsche," and "Give him Hell, Yakimov." Peter waited until some order was restored, but he knew now that this type of man was more to be feared than Flynn or any other professional agitator of the I. W. W. When they had first come face to face, this Russian had feigned ignorance of English, but now his clearly enunciated phrases, though unpolished, indicated a perfect command of the language, and of his subject. That he should choose this time to come out into the open showed that he was more sure of himself and of his audience than Peter liked. And Peter had no humor to match phrases with him. Whatever his own beliefs since he had come to America, one fact stood clear: That he was employed to get this work done and that Yakimov, Flynn and others were trying to prevent it. It was to be no contest of philosophies but of personalities and Peter met the issue without hesitation. "You are a communist then and not a socialist," said Peter, "one who believes in everybody sharing alike whether he works for it or not--or an anarchist who believes in the destruction of everything. You're an agent of the Union of Russian Workers, aren't you?" "And what if I am----?" "Oh, nothing, except that you have no place in a nation like the United States, which was founded and dedicated to an ideal, higher than any you can ever know----" "An ideal--with money as its God----" "And what's your God, Yakimov?" "Liberty----" "License! You want to inflame--pillage--destroy--And what then?" "You shall see----" "What I saw in Russia--no wages for any one, no harvests, factories idle, blood--starvation--if that's what you like, why did you leave there, Yakimov?" The man stood tense for a second and then spoke with a clearness heard in every corner of the room. "I came for another reason than yours. I came to spread the gospel of labor triumphant. _You_ came because----" Here the Russian leaned forward, shaking his fist, his eyes suddenly inflamed and hissing his words in a fury. "_You_ came because you believed in serfs and human slavery--because your own land spewed you out from a sick stomach, because you were one of the rotting sores in its inside--that had made Russia the dying nation that she was; because it was time that your country and my country cleansed herself from such as you. That's why you came. And we'll let these men judge which of us they want to lead them here." The nature of the attack was so unexpected that Peter was taken for a moment off his guard. A dead silence had fallen upon the room as the auditors realized that a game was being played here that was not on the cards. Peter felt the myriads of eyes staring at him, and beyond them had a vision of a prostrate figure in the corner of a courtyard, the blood reddening his blouse under the falling knout. They were all Michael Kuprins, these foreigners who stared at him, all the grievances born of centuries of oppression. And as Peter did not speak at once, Yakimov pursued his advantage. "I did not come here to tell who this man is," he shouted, "this man who tells you what liberty is. But you ought to know. It's your right. You know why Russia rose and threw off the yoke of bondage of centuries. It was because this man before you who calls himself Peter Nichols and others like him bound the people to work for him by terrible laws, taxed them, starved them, beat them, killed them, that he and others like him might buy jewels for their mistresses and live in luxury and ease, on the sweat of the labor of the people. And he asks me why I came to America! It was for a moment such as this that I was sent here to find him out that I might meet him face to face and confront him with his crimes--and those of his father--against humanity." Yakimov paused suddenly in his furious tirade for lack of breath and in the deathly silence of the room, there was a sudden stir as a rich brogue queried anxiously of nobody in particular: "Who in Hell _is_ he, then?" "I'll tell you who he is," the Russian went on, getting his breath. "He's one of the last of a race of tyrants and oppressors, the worst the world has ever known--in Russia the downtrodden. He fled to America to hide until the storm had blown over, hoping to return and take his place again at the head of a new government of the Democrats and the Bourgeoisie--the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch!" The uproar that filled the room for a moment made speech impossible. But every eye was turned on Peter now, some in incredulity, some in malevolence, and some in awe. He saw that it was now useless to deny his identity even if he had wished to do so, and so he stood squarely on his feet, staring at Yakimov, who still leaned forward menacingly, shrieking above the tumult, finally making himself heard. "And this is the man who dares to talk to you about a brotherhood of humanity, just laws and equality among men! This tyrant and son of tyrants, this representative of a political system that you and men like you have overthrown for all time. Is this the man you'll take your orders from? Or from the Union of Russian Workers which hates and kills all oppressors who stand in the way of the rights and liberties of the workers of the world!" A roar of negation went up from the rear of the room, and an ominous murmur spread from man to man. Only those grouped around Peter, some Americans, the Scot, Brierly, the ex-soldier, Jesse Brown, and one or two of the Italians remained silent, but whether in awe of Peter or of his position could not be determined. But Peter still stood, his hands in his pockets, firm of jaw and unruffled. It has been said that Peter had a commanding air when he chose and when he slowly raised a hand for silence the uncouth "Reds" at the rear of the room obeyed him, the menacing growl sinking to a mere murmur. But he waited until perfect silence was restored. And then quietly, "What this man has said is true," he announced calmly. "I _am_ Peter Nicholaevitch. I came to America as you have come--to make my way. What does it matter who my fathers were? I am not responsible for what my fathers did before me. I am only responsible for what I am--myself. If this man in whom you put your trust would speak the truth, he would tell you that I tried to bring peace and brotherhood into the part of Russia where I lived----" "He lies----" "I speak the truth. There people knew that I was their friend. They came to me for advice. I helped them----" "Then why did they burn down your castle?" broke in Yakimov triumphantly. "Because people such as you from the Soviet came among honest and peaceful men, trying to make them as mad as you--I came from Russia to find new life, work, peace and happiness. I came to build. You came to destroy. And I intend to build and you shall not destroy. If the madness of Russia comes to Black Rock it will be because mad dogs come foaming at the mouth and making others mad----" A savage cry went up and a glass came hurtling at Peter's head, but it missed him and crashed against the wall behind him. That crash of glass liberated the pent-up forces in the hearts of these men, for in a moment the place was in a furious uproar, the men aligning themselves in two camps, that of Peter and his friends much the smaller. Peter retreated a pace or two as a shot was fired from a revolver, but the Scot and Brierly and two of the Americans joined him and met the first onslaught bravely. The handful of men was forced back against the wall by sheer weight of numbers, but they struck out manfully with their fists, with chairs, and with their feet, with any object that came to hand, and men went down with bleeding heads. Peter was armed but he did not wish to kill any one--his idea being to make a successful retreat to the office, where the telephone would put him in touch with May's Landing and reinforcements. Yakimov stood at the edge of the crowd, waving a revolver, when a well-aimed missile from the hand of the Scot sent him sprawling to the floor among the benches. Peter and his crowd had fought their way to the door, when Flynn and Jacobi who had led a group of men by the other door, fell on them from the rear. Between the two groups their position was hopeless but Peter fought his way out into the open, dodging a blow from Jacobi and using the terrible _savate_ in Flynn's stomach, just as Shad Wells rushed at him from one side. Peter saw the blow coming from a broken axhandle--but he had no time to avoid it. Instinctively he ducked his head and threw up his left arm, but the bludgeon descended and Peter fell, remembering nothing more. CHAPTER XX THE RUSSIAN PAYS When Peter came back to consciousness, he found himself lying in the shelter of the underbrush alone. And while he attempted to gather his scattered wits together a figure came creeping through the bushes toward him. It was Brierly, the clerk, carrying a hatful of water which he had procured from the neighboring rivulet. Brierly had a lump on his forehead about the size of a silver dollar, and his disheveled appearance gave evidence of an active part in the mêlée. "What's happened?" asked Peter slowly, starting up as memory came back to him. But Brierly didn't answer at once. "Here, drink this. I don't think you're badly hurt----" "No. Just dazed a bit," muttered Peter, and let Brierly minister to him for a moment. "You see, there were too many for us," Brierly explained. "We made a pretty good fight of it at that, but they buried us by sheer weight of numbers. Yours isn't the only bruised head, though. Yakimov got his early in the game--and Jacobi. And gee! but that was a 'beaut' you handed Flynn--right in the solar plexus with your heel. The _savate_--wasn't it? I saw a Frenchy pull that in a dive in Bordeaux. I reckon Flynn won't be doin' much agitatin' for a while--except in his stommick." "How did I get here?" asked Peter. "I hauled you into the bush as soon as I got a chance--in the confusion--and gradually, got you back in here. But I think they're lookin' for us, so we'd better get a move on soon as you're fit enough." "Where's Jesse?" "Beat it, I reckon. Haven't seen him." "I see." And then, "Brierly, I'm obliged to you. I'll try to make it up to you for this." "You needn't bother. I'm for you. You can't let a lot of roughnecks put it over on you like this." "No--I can't--I can't," muttered Peter. "I wish we had a bunch of the boys I was with over in France down here. There's a few up in May's Landing who'd clean this lot up in no time." "I wish we had them." Peter straightened with some difficulty and rose to a sitting posture as the thought came to him. "I've got to get to the 'phone, Brierly." "No. I wouldn't advise that--not here. Those roughnecks are between us and the office--in the office too, I reckon, by this time. It wouldn't be safe. Who were you goin' to 'phone to?" "May's Landing--the Sheriff. I'm going to see this thing through." "Righto! And I'm with you to a fare-ye-well. But it's got to be managed different. They'll beat you to death if you show up now. It was Yakimov that shot at you. He's after you. You were armed. It's a wonder you didn't shoot him down." And then, with some hesitation, "Say, Mr. Nichols. You ain't really the Grand Duke Peter, are you?" Peter smiled. "What's left of him--I am. This man Yakimov is an agent of Trotzky." Brierly whistled softly between his teeth. "I reckon _they_ want to get you, don't they?" Peter nodded. "But they won't--not yet." They held a brief council of war and in a moment on hands and knees were making their way through the underbrush in the general direction of Black Rock. Behind them they heard rough laughter and an occasional outburst of song which proclaimed that new supplies of whisky had been unearthed and that the anarchy which Yakimov so much desired now prevailed. After a while, Peter managed to get to his feet and moved on at a greater speed. He had only been stunned by Shad's blow--a part of the force of which he had caught on his arm. The arm was still numb and his head thumped, but as he went on in the cool air his brain cleared and he found it possible to plan with some definiteness. Brierly knew the sheriff at May's Landing. There was nothing his friends would rather do than to be sworn in as deputies for a job like this. He had thought it a wonder that Peter hadn't called the Sheriff in before. "I thought I could manage the situation alone, Brierly," said Peter quietly, "but it's got the best of me." The way was long to Black Rock--at least eight miles by the way they took--and it was almost six o'clock when, they reached McGuire's. They knew that with the "flivver" in the possession of the outlaws it was quite possible that some of the ringleaders of the disturbance might have preceded them, and so they kept under cover until near the house, when they quickly emerged from the bushes and made their way to the kitchen door, entering without knocking. An unpleasant surprise awaited them here, for in the kitchen, securely gagged and bound to a chair, they found McGuire's valet, Stryker. It took only a moment to release the man and to get the gag out of his mouth, when he began sputtering and pointing toward the door into the house. "Hawk--Hawk Kennedy!" the amazed Peter made out. And after staring at the man in a moment of bewilderment, Peter drew out his revolver and dashed through the house, keyed up at once to new adventure, the eager Brierly at his heels. They went up the stairs and to the door of McGuire's own room, where they stood for a moment aghast at the disorder and havoc before them. Papers and books were scattered everywhere upon the floor, chairs were overturned, and the door of the safe was ajar. At first he saw no one, but when Peter entered the room he heard a sound from the corner beyond the table, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan, and there he found his employer, Jonathan K. McGuire, doubled up on the floor, bound and trussed like his valet and quite as helpless. It was evident that the long awaited terror had come to Black Rock. But if he was dismayed and frightened it seemed that McGuire was uninjured and when he was released he was lifted to his feet and a chair, into which he sank speechless for a moment of rehabilitation. There was no need to question him as to what had happened in this room, for the evidences of Hawk's visit and its purpose were all too evident. Without a word to McGuire, Peter found the telephone in the hall, called for May's Landing, then turning the instrument over to Brierly, with instructions as to what he was to do, returned to McGuire's room and closed the door behind him. "Well, sir," he said briefly. "I see he's come." "My God, yes," gasped McGuire. "And you know what he came for--he got it, Nichols. He got it." "That proves that he _had_ lost the duplicate," said Peter quietly. "How did it all happen?" The old man drew a trembling hand across his brow. "He took me off my guard--all of us. I don't know. It only happened half an hour ago. Where's Stryker?" "He was tied to a chair in the kitchen. We let him loose. He's outside somewhere." "And Mrs. Bergen and Sarah?" "I don't know, sir." Peter went to the door and called Stryker and that bewildered person appeared at the foot of the steps with Mrs. Bergen and Sarah who had been locked in the cellar. Peter called them up and they all began screaming their tale at once. But at last Peter got at the facts. Hawk Kennedy had come suddenly into the kitchen where the two women were and, brandishing a revolver, commanding silence, threatening death if they made a sound. He had surprised the valet in the lower hall and had marched him back into the kitchen, where he had bound him to a chair with a clothes-line and then gagged him. McGuire waved the trio out of the room when their story was told, and signaled to Peter to close the door again, when he took up his interrupted tale. "I was at the window, looking out, Nichols. I didn't expect him for a couple of weeks anyway. I'd just about gotten my nerve back. But he got the drop on me, Nichols. How he ever got into the room without my hearin' him! I must have been in a trance. His shoes were off. The first thing I know is a voice close at my ear and a gun in my ribs. I turned quick--but my gun was in the table drawer. His face was close to mine and I knew he meant business. If I'd 'a' moved he'd 'a' killed me. So I put my hands up. There wasn't anything else to do. I thought I'd play for time but he caught my glance toward the door and only laughed. "'There ain't anybody comin', Mike,' he says. 'It's just you an' me.' I asked him what he wanted and he grinned. 'You know,' he says. And with his left hand he brought out a rope he had stuffed in his pocket. 'I'll fix _you_ first. Then we'll talk,' he says. He was cool like he always was. He caught a slip noose around my wrists before I knew it, twisted the rope around me and threw me over on the floor. I tell you that man is the devil himself." "What then?" "He made me give up the keys to the drawers in the safe--it was open just like it is now. I wouldn't speak at first but he kicked me and then put the gun at my head. I still hoped some one would come. I gave in at last. He found it. My God!" The old man aroused himself with an effort and rose to his feet. "But we've got to catch him--just you and I. He can't have gone far. We've got the right to shoot him now--to shoot on sight----" "Yes--yes. I'm getting the Sheriff at May's Landing now----" "The Sheriff!" The Irishman's small eyes stared and then became alive in sudden comprehension. "Not the Sheriff, Nichols. I won't have him." "You've got to--at once." And then rapidly Peter gave an account of what had happened at the logging camp. But it seemed to have no effect upon McGuire, who listened with glassy eyes. He was obsessed with the other--the graver danger. "We'll keep this thing quiet if you like--the real meaning of this visit, and we've got to pick up his trail. But we can't let those men at the camp have the run of the place. They'll be looting this house next." And then, as McGuire seemed to agree, Peter went to the door and found Brierly still on the 'phone. He was talking to the Sheriff and had told the whole story. The Sheriff had already heard something about the Black Rock camp trouble and would be ready to move in an hour. "Tell him to move fast and to come to McGuire's first," said Peter. "And you'll be here to show him the way." Brierly nodded and finished the message, while Peter returned to McGuire. "What else did Kennedy say?" Peter asked him. "He asked a lot of questions--about you and Beth Cameron--about the money--about what I'd promised you. He's the very devil, I tell you. He knows everything. He said he'd 'get' you and that he'd 'get' Beth Cameron." Peter caught McGuire fiercely by the shoulder. "What did you say? Are you sure?" With all of his other troubles Peter had forgotten Beth and now thought guiltily of the possible danger to which she might have been subjected. How could Hawk have found out about Beth Cameron? "What I told you," muttered McGuire wearily, "he said he'd 'get' her----" Sick with anxiety, Peter flung away from his protesting employer and made for the door, rushing past the astonished Brierly in the hall, down the stairs and out at a run over the bridge and through the village to the Bergen house. The door was open and he rushed in, calling Beth's name. There was no response. Now desperate and fearing the worst, he ran from room to room, downstairs and up. There were signs of her--a towel on a chair, a broom leaning against a door upstairs, the neatly made beds, the orderly kitchen, giving evidence of the morning cleaning, but no supper cooking on the stove, the fire of which had burned to cinders. She had not been here for a long while--since early morning possibly. But where had she gone--where? Hawk Kennedy would hardly have dared to come here--to the village--hardly have succeeded in enticing her away from this house, surrounded by neighbors--still less have succeeded in carrying her off without their knowledge. He rushed out into the road and questioned. No one seemed to have seen her. The eagerness and suppressed anxiety of Peter's manner quickly drew a crowd which felt the contagion of his excitement. A man joined the group. Yes. He had seen Beth in the morning early. She was hurrying down the path which led into the pines. He had not seen her since. Peter glanced at him just once more to be sure that he was speaking the truth and then, without a thought as to the impression he had created in the minds of the villagers, set off running through the path toward his cabin. Fool that he had been! To leave Beth unguarded--unwarned even--with Hawk within a quarter of a mile of her. Why had he not seen the hand of fate in Beth's presence here at Black Rock near McGuire, the man who had wronged her father--the hand of fate, which with unerring definiteness was guiding the principals in this sordid tragedy together from the ends of the earth for a reckoning? And what was this reckoning to be? McGuire had already fallen a victim to the man's devilish skill and audacity. And Beth----? What match was she for a clever desperate rogue who balked at nothing? How had he learned of Beth's existence and how, knowing of it, had he managed to beguile her away from the village? Peter was beginning to believe with McGuire that Hawk Kennedy was indeed in league with the devil. Peter was not now aware of any pain or even of bodily fatigue, for there was no room in his mind for any thought of self. Scarcely conscious of his new exertions, he ran across the log-jam below the pool and up the path to the Cabin. What he expected to find there he did not know, but it seemed clear that Beth had come this way in the morning and if not to the Cabin, where else? Hawk had been here when she had come into the woodland path. That was enough. As he reached the turn in the path, he saw that the door of the Cabin was open and when he rushed in, prepared for anything, he saw that the room was unoccupied. He stood aghast for a moment, trying to adjust his mind to take in logically the evidence he found there--the overturned chair, the blankets dragging on the floor by the bed, the broken water pitcher, the opened bureau drawers, the torn bits of linen--parts of his own handkerchiefs--upon the floor--all visible signs' of a commotion, perhaps of a struggle, that had taken place. And then under the table he espied a square of heliotrope paper. He picked it up quickly and took it to the light of the window. It was the envelope of the letter he had received from Anastasie Galitzin. And what was this----? A scrawl in Beth's hand, "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie." Bewildered for a moment, Peter stared at the forceful characters of the handwriting, written hurriedly in a scrawl of lead pencil, and then the probable sequence of events came to him with a rush. She had opened the note of Anastasie Galitzin and read it. What had it said? He had forgotten details. But there were phrases that might have been misconstrued. And Beth----. He could see her now coming up the path, her head high, seeking explanations--and meeting Hawk! But where was the letter itself? He searched for it without success. Hawk! The answer to all of his questions was in the personality of the man as Peter knew him. The bits of torn linen and Beth's own handkerchief, which he found in the corner of the bed against the wall, crumpled into a ball and still moist with her tears, were mute but eloquent evidences of her suffering and torture in the presence of this man who had not been too delicate in the means by which he had accomplished her subjugation. Peter raged up and down the floor of the Cabin like a caged animal. What must he do--which way turn? That Hawk had gagged and bound her was obvious. But what then? He rushed outside and examined the shrubbery around the Cabin. There was nothing to indicate the direction in which he had taken her--and the forest at his very elbow stretched for miles in all directions, a hiding place that had served other guilty ones before Hawk--the New Jersey pines that he had learned to love, now wrapped in a conspiracy of silence. It would be dusk very soon. A search of the pine barrens at night would be hopeless. Besides, Hawk had had the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon in which to carry out his purpose.... What was that purpose? Where had he taken Beth? Where had he left her when he had returned to Black Rock House to rob McGuire? Or had he...? Impossible! Even Hawk wouldn't have dared.... Peter clenched his fists in agony and rage at the terrible thoughts that came swarming into his brain, driving out all reason. His Highness had suffered greatly the last few years of his life, the physical pain of wounds received in battle, the mental pain of falling hopes, of fallen pride, of disillusionment, but he could not remember any pain that had seemed to matter like the anguish of the present moment. The other sufferings were those of the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, material sufferings born of his high estate. But this present suffering was primitive. It wrenched at the very fibers of the heart, for the love that he had found was a finer thing than had ever happened in his life, a love which asked nothing and only craved the joy of giving. And this woman--this mate that he had chosen out of all the women that he had known in the world...! Hawk Kennedy would have fared badly if Peter could have had him within arm's reach at that moment. But after a time, as Peter went into the Cabin, he grew calmer, and pacing the floor for a while, began to think more lucidly. Less than an hour ago Hawk Kennedy had been at Black Rock House giving Jonathan McGuire and Stryker their unpleasant half-hour. He wouldn't have dared to return and accomplish what he had done after a deed so terrible as that which had entered Peter's thoughts. He was still a human being and Beth.... He couldn't have killed Beth out of hand. The thought was monstrous--even of Hawk. He had taken her somewhere--to one of his hiding-places in the woods, and proposed keeping her, the legal heir of Ben Cameron, for ransom, as a part of his plot to win his share of the McGuire fortune. He had stolen the telltale agreement too and now held all the cards--all of them. Peter paused standing by the window seat, looking out at the leaves falling in the rising wind, his mind already resolved on a plan. He was about to turn toward the telephone, when he noted a commotion in the bushes opposite his window. A flash of fire almost at the same moment, a crash of broken glass, and the hair on his head twitched violently. Instinctively Peter dropped to the floor. Close shooting! His scalp stung uncomfortably--but aside from that he knew that he was not hurt. A fraction of an inch lower---- Hawk----! His first impulse had been to rush to the door--but the events of the day had taught him caution and so he crouched, drawing his revolver. Too much depended upon his existence at the present moment to take a chance in the open with a hidden enemy--especially if that enemy were Hawk Kennedy. He listened intently. No sound. Then the breaking of a twig and the sibilance of whispering voices--two of them--perhaps more. And still Peter did not move. His quick thinking had done him a service. It was clear that the men outside had decided that the shot had taken effect. And now, instead of creeping to the doorway, Peter settled back upon the floor again, prostrate, but in such a position that his eyes and his revolver commanded the entrance to the Cabin. He waited. It was a nerve-racking business but the thought of all that depended upon his safety steadied him into a preternatural calm like that which falls at the presence of death. Death was imminent here for some one. It lurked just outside. It lurked in the finger that Peter held against the trigger. And Peter meant that the adventure should end at the doorway. Presently he heard a gentle shuffling of feet outside and the whisper again, this time quite distinctly, "You got him, I reckon." Whose voice was that? Not Hawk Kennedy's ... Peter lowered his head to his arm and closed his eyes, watching the door-jamb through his eyelashes, his revolver hidden but its muzzle in line. A bulky shadow on the step, a foot and then a head cautiously protruded--that of Shad Wells, followed immediately by another, swathed in a bandage which only partially concealed the dark eyes and beard of Yakimov the Russian. It took considerable exercise of will on Peter's part to remain quiescent with the stare of those four eyes upon him, especially when he noted the weapon in the fingers of the Russian. But he waited until the two men got into the room. "There he is. You got him, Yakimov," said Shad with a laugh. "Perhaps----" Peter heard, "but I'll make sure of it----" Yakimov's pistol rose slowly, halfway to the level of his eyes. But it was never fired, for Peter's revolver flashed fire, twice--three times, and Yakimov with a sudden wide stare at vacancy pitched forward and crashed down. The surprise was complete, for a fourth shot went into the right arm of Shad Wells, which ruined his shot and sent his weapon clattering to the floor. Peter had taken Shad's measure once before and the memory of the blow from the axhandle earlier in the day did nothing to soften Peter's intent. The quick command as he scrambled to his feet and the sight of the imminent weapon caused Shad suddenly to forget everything but the desire, whatever else happened, not to die as Yakimov had done. And so he put his hands up--staggering back against the wall. Peter, with his weapon still covering Shad, put his fingers over Yakimov's heart. The man was dead. Then he rose soberly and faced Shad. "I ought to kill you like the dog that you are," he said tensely, "but I want to question you first. Stand over by the bed." Shad obeyed and Peter, watching him closely, picked up his weapon and Yakimov's and examined them carefully, putting one in his pocket and laying the other beside him on the mantel. But all the fight was out of Shad, who stood stupidly while Peter bound his wrists behind him. The man was badly hurt, but it was no time for Peter to be playing the good Samaritan. "So much for keeping bad company," said Peter coolly. "You'll find more of the same sort in the lock-up at May's Landing." "You daresn't send me there," muttered Shad, with a feeble attempt at bravado. "Won't I? You'll see--for attempted murder. The Sheriff is on his way here now. Have you anything to say?" Shad was silent, eying the dead man. "Oh, very well," said Peter. He closed and locked the door and, keeping the man covered with his revolver, moved to the telephone and got McGuire at Black Rock House, telling him in a few phrases what had happened. "Yes, Yakimov the Russian--I shot him.... Yes.... I killed him. It was to save my own life.... Shad Wells.... A prisoner. Send Brierly with a car down here at once. Hawk has been here too and has met Beth Cameron ... God knows. He has taken her away with him somewhere--abducted her.... Yes ... Yes ... I've got to find her. Yes, _Beth_--can't you understand?... She came here to bring me a letter ... I found it. Hawk was here early this morning.... I know it. He bound her with some of my handkerchiefs ... No, there's no doubt of it--none at all.... I can't stand here talking. Send Brierly at once. Understand?" And Peter hung up the receiver and turned toward Shad, who was leaning forward toward him, his face pale, his mouth agape at what he had heard. But Peter, unaware of the sudden transformation in his prisoner, only glanced at him and bending over began a search of the pockets of the dead man, when Shad's voice cut the silence---- "You--you say----," he stammered chokingly, "you say B-Beth has been abducted, Mister--Beth Cameron?" Peter straightened, his eyes searching the lumberman's face. "Yes. To-day--this morning," he answered crisply. "What of it? Do you know anything----?" "Hawk Kennedy took her?" the man faltered. "Are you sure?" Peter sprang up, his eyes blazing with eagerness. "What do you know of Hawk Kennedy?" he cried. And then, as Shad seemed suddenly to have been stricken dumb, Peter seized him by the shoulder and shook him. "Speak! Do you know Hawk Kennedy?" "Yes," said Shad in a bewildered way. "I do--but Beth----" "He's taken her away--don't you understand?" "W-Why?" "God knows," said Peter wildly. "It's part of a plot--against McGuire--to get money. Do you know where he is? Do you know where he's gone with her? Speak, man! Or must I----?" "I know him. I've seen him----," muttered Shad with a hang-dog air. "To-day?" "No." Peter gasped in disappointment, but still questioned quickly. "Where did you see him?" "Down near the camp. He came back again yesterday. He'd been away----" "Yes, yes, I know. What did he say?" "Oh, he was very peart--swaggered around like he owned the place and talked about a lot of money he was goin' to have. An' how he was----" "Do you know where he took Beth Cameron?" broke in Peter again. "No. I don't--My God--_him!_" "Yes, _him_. You know what it means. He'd kill her if he dared." "Would he? My God! Mister. You can't let----" "No. No." And then, sharply, "Speak up, Wells, and I'll set you free. Do you know where he could have taken her?" "I'm not sure, but maybe----" "Where----?" "He stayed down at the Forks----" "Yes. But he wouldn't have dared to take her there----" "No. That's so. Maybe----" "Where?" "Some other place----" "Of course. Was there any other place that he knew about?" "Yes, there was. But when he first came he rode down on a horse from Hammonton." "Yes, yes. Go on. And later----" "He used to come around the camp for food. It was when you first came on the job. But he bought it and paid for it." "I don't care about that. Where was he hiding?" "Back in the woods. He used to sleep in the old tool house down by the cedar swamp." Peter was now on edge with excitement. "Do you think he'd be likely to take Beth there?" "How should I know? Maybe he took her to Hammonton or Egg Harbor." "No. He wouldn't have had time. Where's this tool house?" "About half a mile from the mills." "Could you show me the way?" "I reckon I could----," Shad Wells sank into a chair and bent his head. "My God! Mister. If I'd only 'a' known! If you'd only let me help you--I can't stand thinkin' of anythin' happenin' to Beth--you an' me--we ain't got along, an' maybe you've got the upper hand of me, but----" "We've got to forget that now," put in Peter quickly, and taking out his hasp knife he cut the cords that bound Shad's wrists. "Just to show you that I mean what I say." And then, soberly, "You know these woods. Help me to find Beth Cameron and I'll make no charge against you. Is that a bargain?" "Yes, Mister." Peter glanced at his face and at the blood dripping from his finger ends. The man was suffering much pain but he hadn't whimpered. "All right. Take off your coat and I'll tie your arm up first." Silently Shad rose and obeyed while Peter got water and washed the wound, a clean one right through the muscles of the forearm. But no bones were broken and Peter bandaged it skillfully. Shad clenched his jaws during the washing of the wound but he said nothing more. Peter knew that the man still hated him but he knew also that Shad was now powerless to do him any injury, and that there was a tie to bind them now into this strange alliance. As Peter finished the bandaging and was improvising a sling for the wounded arm, Shad crumpled side-long upon the edge of the bed, his face ghastly, and would have fallen to the floor if Peter hadn't held him upright, and half carried him to the armchair. Then Peter unlocked a cupboard and brought forth whisky, giving Shad half a tumblerful and in a moment the man began to revive. So Peter poured another glass and slowly Shad pulled himself together. "Perhaps you're not up to it----," Peter began. But Shad wagged his head with some determination. "Yes, I--I'm up to it all right. I've got to go, Mister. We'll find her if she's in these woods----" "Bully for you. Feeling better now?" Shad nodded and then raised his head, staring with a frown out of the window by the piano. Peter had been so absorbed in his task of setting the man to rights that he had not noticed the dull glow that had risen in the southern sky. And following Shad's glance he turned his head and looked out of the window. At first he thought it might be the afterglow of the sunset until a word from Shad aroused him to the real significance of the light. "Fire!" gasped the lumberman. "Fire!" echoed Peter, aghast. "They've set the woods afire, Mister," muttered Shad helplessly. At the same moment the telephone from the house began jangling furiously. It was McGuire, who had made the same discovery. "Yes," replied Peter to the hysterical questions. "It's the lumber camp. They've broken loose and set the woods afire. You've got to get all the men you can together and rush them down there. Where's Brierly? On the way? Oh, all right. Good. He'll take me down and I'll send him back.... Yes. I've got a clew to Hawk ... I don't know, but I'm going to try it. I'm taking Shad Wells with me ... The old tool house by the cedar swamp. Brierly will know. Send the men on in relays when they come--with shovels and sacks.... What did you say?... What?... Oh, 'D----n the woods.'... All right. I'll get the paper if I can ... Yes. It's my affair as much as yours now.... Yes.... Good-by." Peter hung up the receiver and turned to Shad, who had risen, his arm in the sling, just as Brierly came running up the path to the door. CHAPTER XXI THE INFERNO The way through the woods was long, but Beth stumbled on, urged by the rough tone and strong hand of her captor. She knew the woods well, better than Hawk, but she had never ventured so far into the forest as he led her. She felt very certain that he knew even less than she of the way he was taking, and that his object in avoiding the roads and paths which led to the southward was to keep her hidden from the eyes of any persons that might be met on the paths between Black Rock and the lumber camp. But after a while she began to think that he knew with more or less definiteness the general direction in which they were moving, for he stopped from time to time to look at the sun and get his bearings. And then with a gruff word he would move on again, always to the south and east, and she knew that he had already decided upon their destination. With her hands still bound behind her, progress through the underbrush was difficult, for the branches stung her like whip-lashes, and thorn-bushes caught at her arms and tore her flimsy frock to shreds. The gag in her mouth made breathing painful, but Hawk seemed to be unaware of her sufferings or purposely oblivious of them, for he hardly glanced at her and said no word except to urge her on to greater exertion. When they approached the road which he wanted to cross, he warned her with an oath to remain where he left her and went forward to investigate, after which he returned and hurried her across into the thicket upon the other side. And it was not until they were securely hidden again far from the sight of any possible passers-by that he untied the bonds at her wrists and took the gag from her mouth. But she knew more than ever that she was completely in his power. He was sinister. He typified terror, physical and mental--and behind the threat of his very presence lay the gruesome vision of sand and sun and the bearded man lying with the knife in his back. She tried to summon her native courage to combat her fears, to believe that the situation in which she found herself was not so evil as she imagined it--and that soon Hawk Kennedy would have a change of heart and give her a chance to speak in her own behalf. But he silenced her gruffly whenever she addressed him and she gave up at last, in fear of bringing his wrath upon her. She could see that he was deeply intent upon his object to get her away from Black Rock where none could find her. And what then? In a wild impulse--a moment of desperation, she broke away from him and ran, but he caught her easily, for by this time she was very tired. Again, she thought of a struggle with him hand to hand, but he read her mind and drew a pistol, pushing her on ahead of him as before, threatening bodily injury. By this time she had learned to believe him capable of any cruelty. But she thanked God that the dangers that threatened were only those which could come from a brutal enemy and in his very brutality she even found refuge from the other and more terrible alternative of his amiability. As Hawk had said, he wasn't "on that lay this trip." But what his ultimate purpose was she had no means of determining. She knew that he was totally without scruple and had thought in her first moments of terror that he meant to take her far back into the woods--and there kill her as he had done her father, thus again destroying all claim. But as the moments passed and she saw that he had some definite objective, the feeble remnants of her courage gathered strength. Her attempt to escape had failed, of course, but his tolerance gave her a hope that he did not dare to do the dreadful violence of which she had thought. For hours--it seemed--they went through underbrush and swamp-land, stopping from time to time at Hawk's command while he listened and got their bearings. Beth had never been in this part of the woods, but she had an idea, from the crossing of the road and the character of the trees, that they were now somewhere in the Lower Reserve and not very far from the lumber camp. It was there that Peter Nichols was. Her heart leaped at the thought of his nearness. All memory of the heliotrope envelope and of its contents seemed to have been wiped from her consciousness by the rough usage of this enemy to them both. It seemed to matter very little now who this woman was that Peter had known. She belonged to a mysterious and unhappy past--for he had hinted at that--which had nothing to do with the revelation that Beth had read in his eyes as to the meaning of the wonderful present for them both. She knew now that he could have explained, if she had given him the chance. Instead of which she had rushed heedlessly to misfortune, the victim of a childish pride, plunging them both into this disaster. That pride was a pitiful thing now, like her disordered hair and her bedraggled frock, which flapped its ribbons, soaked and muddy, about her knees. But as long as she was still alive and in no immediate danger, she tried to hope for some incident which would send Peter back to Black Rock earlier than Hawk had expected, where, at the Cabin, he would guess the truth as to her meeting with Hawk and what had followed. But how could he guess all that? The difficulty dismayed her, He would hunt for her of course as soon as he learned of her disappearance, but clever as he was there seemed no way in which he could solve the mystery of her flight, still less, having guessed Hawk Kennedy's purpose, follow any trail through the wilderness by which her captor had led her. Even in the apparent hopelessness of her situation, she had not reached the point of actual despair. Youth and her customary belief in all that was good in the world sustained her. Something would happen--something _must_ happen.... As she trudged along, she prayed with her whole heart, like David, to be delivered from the hand of the oppressor. That prayer comforted her and gave her strength and so when they came out at the edge of the swamp some moments later she obeyed his instructions more hopefully. There was a path along the edge of the water which presently led into the heart of the woods again, and there almost before she was aware of it she found herself facing a small wooden house or shanty which seemed in a fairly good state of preservation. Silently, Hawk Kennedy unfastened the hasp which held the door, and gruffly ordered her to go inside. Wondering, she obeyed him. But her captor now acted with a celerity which while it gave her new fears, set other fears at rest, for he took the handkerchiefs from his pockets and gagged and bound her arms and wrists again, pushing her down on a pile of sacking which had served some one for a bed, tying her feet and knees with ropes that were there so that she could neither move nor make a sound. There for a moment he stood, staring down at her with a grim kind of humor, born of his successful flight. "Some kid, by G----! I'm kinder sorry--d---- if I ain't. But ye hadn't any business bein' who ye are. I believe I'd rather kill ye outright than hurt ye any more--that I would. Maybe I won't have to do either. Understand? But I got somethin' to do first. It ain't any child's play an' I ain't got much time to spare. Be a good kid an' lie quiet an' go to sleep and I'll be back after a while an' set ye free. Understand?" Beth nodded helplessly, for it was the only thing that she could do and with relief watched his evil shape darken the doorway out of which he went, carefully closing the door and fastening the hasp on the outside. Then she heard the crunch of his footsteps in the dry leaves behind the Cabin. They moved rapidly and in a few moments she heard them no more. Lying on her side, her head pillowed on the bagging, it did not seem at first as though she were uncomfortable, and her eyes, wide open, peered around her prison. There was a small window unglazed and by the light which came from it she could see some axhandles piled in one corner of the hut, several cross-cut saws on a box at one side, a few picks and a shovel or two. It must be a tool house used for the storage of extra implements and she remembered dimly that Shad had once spoken of the cutting that had been begun down by the swamp and abandoned for a better location. This then was where Hawk Kennedy had taken her and she knew that it was a spot little visited nowadays except by hunters, and at some distance from the scene of present logging operations, toward the spur of the railroad. It was here perhaps that Hawk Kennedy had hidden while making his earlier investigations of Black Rock while he ripened his plot against Mr. McGuire. There were several empty bottles upon the floor, a moldy crust of bread, and a broken water-pitcher which confirmed the surmise. She realized that Hawk had planned well. It seemed hardly possible to hope for a chance passer-by in this deserted spot. And even if she heard the sound of guns or even heard footsteps in the leaves, what chance had she of making known her whereabouts? But she strained her ears, listening, only to hear the twittering of the birds, the chattering of squirrels and the moaning of the wind in the tree tops. How near was freedom and yet how difficult of attainment! She wriggled gently in her bonds but each motion seemed to make them tighter, until they began to cut more and more cruelly into her tender flesh. She tried by twisting her hands and bending her body to touch the knots at her knees but her elbows were fastened securely and she couldn't reach them. And at last she gave up the attempt, half stifled from her exertions and suffering acutely. Then she lay quiet, sobbing gently to herself, trying to find a comfortable posture, and wondering what was to be the end of it all. Hours passed in which the scampering of the four-footed things grew less and less and the birds ceased their chirping. Only the moaning of the wind continued, high in the tree tops. Once or twice she thought she plainly heard footsteps near by and renewed her efforts to free herself, but desisted again when she learned that it was only the sound of the flying leaves dancing against the outside walls of her prison. She thought of all the things that had happened in her brief and uneventful life, but most she thought of Peter Nichols, and all that his visit to Black Rock had meant to her. And even in her physical discomfort and mental anguish found herself hoping against hope that something would yet happen to balk the sinister plans of Hawk Kennedy, whatever they were. She could not believe that happiness such as hers had been could come to such a dreadful end so soon. But what was Hawk Kennedy's mission now? Where had he gone unless to Black Rock again? And what would he be doing there? Was revenge his motive now, stronger since her revelation of her parentage? And was it Peter that he was going to...? Her cry was muffled in the bandage. He had gone back to Black Rock to lie in wait for Peter--to kill him perhaps. Sobbing anew she struggled again with her bonds, until at last she lay back relaxed and exhausted, and prayed with all her might to the God that had always been her guide. And after a while she grew calm again, refreshed and strengthened by her faith. No harm would befall Peter. No further harm would come to her. Evil such as Hawk's was powerless against her prayers. Already he had done her a great injury. The God of her faith would keep her scatheless until Peter, the man she loved, came to save her. She was as sure of this now as though she could see him coming, vengeance in his hand, with long strides through the forest to her hiding-place. And so, after a while, exhausted from her efforts, she fell into a doze. When she awoke from troubled dreams it was with a sense of suffocation. She had stirred in her sleep and the thongs had cut more deeply into the flesh at her knees, causing her pain. Below the knees she was numb from the constant pressure, but she moved her toes up and down and her limbs tingled painfully as the constricted blood flowed into her extremities. How long she had lain there she did not know, but the interior of the shed seemed to have grown quite dark, as though a storm were rising outside. The wind was still blowing, and above the moaning of the pines she could hear the continuous rustle of the leaves and the creaking of moving branches. She managed with an effort to turn her head toward the window, where through the dark leaves of the overshadowing trees she could catch glimpses of the sky, which seemed to have turned to a pinkish purple, like the afterglow of a sunset. Was it possible that she could have slept so long? In the turning of her head it seemed that the bandage over her mouth had become loosened and as she tried the experiment again, the handkerchief slipped down around her neck. In a moment she had gotten rid of the wad of linen in her mouth. At least she could breathe freely now and moisten her parching lips. This boon seemed almost in answer to her prayers. And if one bandage could come loose by God's help, why not another? And so cheerfully and with a persistence which took no thought of the pain she was inflicting upon herself, she began working her hands to and fro behind her until she fancied that the pressure on her wrists was not so great as before. With an effort she managed to wriggle over against the wall and so to straighten into a sitting posture. It was then that she suddenly raised her head and sniffed at the air from the small window above her through which a slender wisp of smoke came curling. Smoke! The smell of burning brush, familiar to her, and yet back here in the woods, unless from a well tended camp-fire, fraught with perilous meaning. She glanced out of the small opening again. The purple had grown redder, a dull crimson shot with streaks of blue--smoke everywhere, endless streamers and tortuous billows sweeping down on the wings of the wind. Fire in the woods! She knew the meaning of that. And the reddish purple was not the sunset but the glow of mighty flames near by, a "crown" fire in the pines! From the volume of smoke, increasing with every moment, it seemed that the old tool house in which she was imprisoned must be directly in the path of the flames. Now thoroughly aware of her possible fate if she could not release herself she strained her ears, listening, and now heard distinctly above the sounds nearer at hand a distant crackling roar and the thud of heavy branches falling. The interior of the cabin had now grown even dimmer--to a dark redness--and the smoke came billowing in at the window almost stifling her with its acrid fumes. Outside the window, when she struggled for freedom, she caught a glimpse of sparks, flying like meteors past the dim rectangle of her vision, small ones, larger ones, and then flaming brands which must set fire to whatsoever they touched. She was half mad now with terror. She tried to think calmly, because she knew that unless a miracle happened she would die alone here--the most horrible of all deaths. And then her eye caught the gleam of something upon the tool chest in the shadows beyond--the teeth of the cross-cut saw! If she could reach it! She fell over purposely on the sacking and with great difficulty wriggled slowly toward it, inch by inch. Could she reach it with her wrists? With an effort she squirmed to the chest and straightened, her back against it, as she had done against the wall, and then turning, in spite of the increased pressure of her thongs, managed in some way to get to her knees, feeling for the teeth of the saw with her fingers behind her. It was not very sharp, but if she could direct it between her wrists it would do. In her new thrill of hope, she was hardly conscious of the suffocating smoke which now filled the cabin, stinging her eyes so that she could hardly see, or of the heat which with her exertions had sent the perspiration streaming down her face. For now, balancing herself with great care, she moved her tortured arms, half numb with pain, up and down against the rusty edges. A sharp pain and she bit her lips,--readjusting herself to her task. But she felt the saw cutting into the rope--one strand, another, and in a moment her hands were released. In her joy of the achievement, she toppled over on the floor, but managed to release her elbows. Now, panting with her exertions and moving her arms quickly to restore the circulation, she felt for the knots at her knees and ankles and in a moment her limbs were free. But she had not reckoned with the effects of their long period of inactivity, for when she tried to get to her feet she found that her limbs were powerless. But she moved her knees up and down, suffering keenly as the blood took up its course, and after a time managed to scramble to her feet, and stagger to the opening in the wall. It seemed that all the forest was now a mass of flaming brands and that the roar of the flames was at her very ears. It was stiflingly hot too and in one corner of the cabin there was a tiny bright spot and a curl of smoke. Had her liberty come too late? She was not even free yet, for the hole in the wall of the building was no larger than a single pane of glass and the door of the shanty was fastened by the hasp on the outside. There was no time now to hesitate unless she wished to be burned alive. With an effort she threw herself against the door--again and again, but it would not yield. Despairing and blinded by smoke, she staggered to the box hunting an ax, when her fingers met the handle of the friendly saw. It was heavy but she knew how to use it, and set it at the hole in the wall, drawing it back and forth. The wood was dead and she felt it yield to the strong teeth of the tool, so that she struggled on, the width of the board; then cut again, at the upper edge of the aperture, and in a moment the board fell away. She was not a moment too soon, for as she crawled through the opening and fell exhausted on the outside, one end of the building suddenly caught fire, blazing fiercely. The sparks were all around her and her skirt caught fire in the flaming leaves into which she had fallen, but she put it out with her blistered hands and rose to her feet. A figure was coming toward her, bent, its hand before its eyes. She could not make out who it was, but as she turned to run Hawk Kennedy espied her. "Ho there, kid! Got loose, hey? Just in time. Did ye think I was goin' to let ye be burned to death?" * * * * * With Brierly leading them to the machine and listening to Peter's story as they went, Peter made his way across the foot of the lawn to the road where the machine was waiting for them. As they climbed into it, the glow to the south had turned a lurid red, staining the dusky sky to the zenith. Brierly drove and for precaution's sake Peter sat in the tonneau with Shad. But the lumberman, if he had ever been considered formidable even in his own estimation, showed no evidence of any self-confidence. Peter had given him signs of mettle which were not to be denied and like all bullies Shad knew that he was beaten. The one vestige of his decency,--his honorable affection for Beth, which had blinded him to reason and all sense of duty, was now dedicated to the task of saving her. And though the dull hatred of Peter still burned in his breast, the instinct of self-preservation, and the chance of retrieving himself at the last, made it necessary for him to put his pride in his pocket and accept the inevitable. "Ye'll keep yer word, Mister?" he inquired of Peter, after a moment. "I didn't have nothin' to do with settin' them woods afire. Ye'll get me out o' this scrape?" "Yes," said Peter shortly. "I will." But he watched him nevertheless. The ex-soldier drove the car at a furious pace over the rough road, rejoicing in the open cut-out and the rush of the wind past his ears. He had been, for a time, a chauffeur of a staff car on the other side, and the present conditions were full of promise of the kind of excitement that appealed to his youthful spirit. Shad shouted instructions over his shoulder but Brierly only nodded and sent the car on over the corduroy to which they had come, with the throttle wide. Night had nearly fallen but the road was a crimson track picked out with long pencilings of shadow. The wind was still tossing the tree tops and leaves and twigs cut sharply across their faces. There was no mistaking the danger to the whole of the Lower Reserve unless the wind fell--a "crown" fire after two weeks of drought was not a subject for jest. But Peter was not thinking of the damage to McGuire's property. He roared questions eagerly at Wells as to the location of the cabin with reference to the probable course of the flames. The man only shook his head dubiously, but it was plain that he was considering that danger. As they neared the fire they could see the flames clearly now, beyond the pines just before them, which were etched in deeply bitten lines, every quivering frond in silhouette against the glare. As the car neared the "Forks," Shad directed Brierly to take the turn to the left--away from the main road to camp, and they swung into a sandy road, the wind at their backs, their way for a time almost parallel to the course of the flames. They passed the small settlement of the "Forks," the few denizens of which were standing beside the road, their few household goods packed in barrows and carts, undecided whether or not the red terror would come their way. The flames were clearly visible now, leaping skyward like devils freed from Hell, and so hot was the fire and so high the wind that whole branches were carried high into the air and flaming fell beyond into the cool dark to kindle new destruction. Anything that lay to leeward of the holocaust was doomed. Peter furiously questioned Wells again, but he only shook his head while he anxiously watched the flames as the road converged toward them. But as the road swung to the left Shad shouted and held up his hand and Brierly brought the car to a stop. "This is the nearest point, I guess, Mister. From here on to Cranberry town the road runs to the left of Cedar Swamp." "Where's the cabin?" queried Peter anxiously. "In yonder, not far from the edge of the swamp," Shad replied with a frown. "Looks like the fire's pretty near there." "Come on, then," said Peter quickly. "Brierly, you go back to Black Rock and bring the men here. Follow in. We'll be on the lookout for you." And leaving Brierly to turn the car, he started off with Shad Wells into the underbrush. His heart sank as he saw how furiously the fire was raging and how near it seemed to be. But Shad needed no urging now and led the way with a long stride, Peter following closely. The woods were not so heavy here and the forest was now as bright as at midday, and so they made rapid progress, coming out at the end of some minutes at the edge of the swamp, whose burnished pools sullenly reflected the fiery heavens. There they found a path and proceeded more quickly. To Peter's anxious questions Shad shook his head and only peered before him, forgetting his own suffering in the dreadful danger to which the girl they sought might be subjected. A terrible thought had come into Peter's mind in the last few moments--that it was Hawk Kennedy who had set fire to the woods after imprisoning Beth in a cabin in the path of the flames. This was his vengeance, terrible in its simplicity--for a lighted match in the dry leaves would do the trick, and incendiarism in the woods was difficult to trace. A vengeance fatal in its effectiveness, for such a fire would tell no tales. Peter found himself hoping that it was not to the old tool cabin that Beth had been taken--that she was even far away from this inferno that lay before him. The glare was already hot on his face and stray breezes which blew toward him from time to time showed that the wind might be veering to the eastward, in which case all the woods which they now traversed would soon be afire. But to the credit of Shad Wells it may be said that he did not hesitate, for when he reached a point in the path where it turned closely along the edge of the swamp, he plunged boldly into the woods, directly toward the flames, and Peter, even more eager than he, ran ahead, peering to right and left for signs of the cabin which now could not be far away. The roar and the crackling were now ominously near and the flames seemed to be all about them, while the tree tops seemed to be filled with flaming brands. Sparks and live cinders fell upon them and the hot breath of the wind blistered them with its heat. Suddenly the panting Shad grasped Peter sharply by the arm with his uninjured hand. "The cabin! My God! It's burning now----Quick, Mister--or----" Peter sprang forward through the flaming leaves. He seemed to be in the very midst of the flames. Blinded and suffocated by the smoke, Peter plunged forward and reached the cabin. One end and side of it was blazing furiously but he dashed around the lower end of it, seeking the door. It was open and already aflame. The hut was empty. He ran out again, blinded by the smoke and the glare. Was it a fool's errand? And had he and Shad only entrapped themselves to no good end? To the right of him the fire roared and with his back to the glare his eyes eagerly sought the shadows down the wind. Vague shapes of gnarled branches and pallid tree trunks, spectral bushes quivering before the advancing demon, some of them already alight. Safety lay only in this one direction--for Beth, if she had been there, for Shad----Peter suddenly remembered the lumberman and turned to his left to look, when suddenly he espied a figure moving away from him and ran after it, calling. He realized immediately that his hoarse cry was lost in the inferno of the flames, but he ran more rapidly, beating out the embers which had ignited the sleeve of his shirt. He saw the figure clearly now, but it was not Shad--for Shad had been in his shirt sleeves. This figure wore a coat and stumbled away half bent, one arm over its head, pushing something--some one ahead of it. Peter drew his revolver, leaping the burning leaves and calling aloud. He saw the figures ahead of him halt and turn as they heard his voice and the glare behind him shone full upon them, the face of the man agape with inflamed surprise--Hawk Kennedy's, and the other, wide-eyed as at the sight of an apparition--Beth's. Only thirty paces separated them when Hawk Kennedy fired. Peter heard Beth's scream and saw her strike at the man's arm, but furiously he swung her in front of him and fired again. But her struggles and the uncertain light sent the bullet wide. Peter did not dare to shoot for the man was using her as a shield, but he did not hesitate and ran in, trusting to luck and Beth's struggles. One bullet struck him somewhere as Beth seemed to stumble and crumple to the ground, but he went on unspent and catapulted into his man with a rush that sent them both sprawling into the smoldering foliage. Blinded by the smoke, but mad with fury, Peter struck and clutched, and Hawk's last shot went upward for Peter wrenched his wrist and then struck him full on the head with his own weapon. He felt the man relax and slip down into the dust and smoke, where he lay motionless. Peter drew himself up to arm's length, wondering at the feebleness of his muscles and the trouble with his breathing. "Beth!" he gasped, frantically, searching the smoking ground for her. "Peter--thank God!" Her voice was just at his ear and an arm went around his neck. "Beth! Beth! You've got to get out of this." "Come, Peter--there's time----" Just then a branch crashed down just beside them, showering them with sparks. "Come, Peter--come!" she cried. He struggled up with an effort, one hand clutching at his breast. "Go, Beth!" he gasped. "For God's sake, go!" Beth stared at him for one short terrible moment as she realized what had happened to him. "Peter! You--you're----" "I--I think I'm hurt--a little--it isn't much." He swayed but she caught him and put an arm around one shoulder, clutching it with the other hand. "Lean on me," she muttered. "I'm strong enough----" "No--go, Beth----" But she put her strength under him and began walking while he staggered on beside her. Sparks and fiery brands rained down upon them, blistering and burning, the hot breath of the furnace drove their breath poisoned back into their lungs and scorched their bodies, but still they remained upright--and by a miracle still moved on. "To the left," Peter heard dimly, "the swamp is close by." He obeyed her, more dead than alive, and by sheer effort of will kept his feet moving, paced to hers. He seemed to be walking as though in a red fever, on leaden feet, carrying a body that had no weight or substance. But after a while his feet too seemed to grow lighter and he felt himself falling through space. But her arms were still about him. "Peter," he heard her voice in agony, "only a few yards further----" With a last remaining effort he struggled and then his feet stumbling, toppled forward and sank into something soft, something deliciously cool and soothing. He felt a hand tugging at him, but he had no pain now, no weakness--only the perfect happiness of a body that, seeking rest, has found it. After a while he revived at the sound of a voice at his ear. Water was splashing over his face and he struggled up. "No--keep down," he heard Beth's voice saying. "We're safe, Peter--the wind is changing----" "And you, Beth----?" "All right, dear. A little patience----" The voice trembled, but there was a world of faith in it. After all that had happened, it was impossible that further disaster should follow now. "Y-you're all right?" he gasped weakly. "Yes. Yes. Lie still for a while." And so they half lay, half crouched in the mud and water, while the inferno swept over them, passing to the south. His head was on her breast and against his ear he could feel her heart beating bravely, a message of strength and cheer. From time to time her wet fingers brushed his hair with water and then, as he seemed to be sinking into a dream again, he felt lips light as thistle-down upon his brows. Death such as this, he thought, was very pleasant. And then later he was aroused by a shrill clear call.... Then saw lights flashing.... Heard men's voices.... Felt himself carried in strong arms ... but all the while there were soft fingers in his own. CHAPTER XXII RETRIBUTION When they lifted him into the automobile and Beth got in beside him, his fingers moved in her own. "Beth," she heard him whisper. "Peter--I'm here." "Thank God. And--and Shad----? He--he was with me----" "He's asking for Shad," she repeated to Brierly, unaware that her cousin, like his Biblical namesake, had come scatheless through the fiery furnace. But some one heard the question and replied: "Shad's here, Miss. He's all right----" "Oh," gasped Peter. "And there's something else----" "No, no--we must go. Your wound----" But he insisted. "I--I'm all--right. Something else,--Beth--some one must get--paper--blue envelope--Hawk Ken----" His words ended in a gasp and he sank back in her arms. Beth was frightened at the sudden collapse and the look in his face, but she knew that his injunction was important. And keeping her courage she called Shad Wells to the side of the car and gave quick directions. There was a note of appeal in her voice and Shad listened, his gaze over his shoulder in the direction she indicated. "If he ain't burned to a crisp by now----" "Go, Shad--please! And if you can get to him bring the papers in his pocket to me." He met her gaze and smiled. "I reckon I'll get to him if anybody can." "Oh, thanks, Shad--thanks----" she muttered, as the lumberman turned, followed by one of the others, and silently moved toward the flames. And in a moment the car was on its way to Black Rock, Brierly driving carefully over the rough road. That was a terrible ride for Beth. She supported the wounded man against her shoulder, her gaze on his pallid face. Her poor blistered arm was about his waist, but she had no thought for her own suffering. Every ounce of strength that remained to her was given to holding Peter close to her so that he would not slip down, every ounce of faith in her soul given to combat with the fears that assailed her. It seemed to Beth that if the Faith that had brought her through this day and out of that furnace were still strong enough she could combat even the Death that rode with them. And so she prayed again, holding him closely. But he was so cold and inert. She put her hand over his heart and a tiny pulsation answered as though to reassure her. Her hand came away dry, for the wound was not near his heart. She thanked God for that. She found it high up on the right side just below the collar bone and held her fingers there, pressing them tightly. If this blood were life and she could keep it within him she would do it. But he was so pale.... Brierly drove to Black Rock House instinctively. Here were beds, servants and the telephone. He sounded his horn as they came up the driveway and an excited group came out upon the porch. But Beth saw only McGuire. "Mr. Nichols has been shot, Mr. McGuire--he's dangerously hurt," she appealed. "He's got to have a doctor--at once." "Who--who shot him?" "Hawk Kennedy." "And he--Hawk----?" "He's dead, I think." She heard McGuire's sudden gasp and saw Aunt Tillie come running. "He's got to be put to bed--Aunt Tillie," she pleaded. "Of course," said McGuire, finding his voice suddenly, "Of course--at once. The blue room, Mrs. Bergen. We'll carry him up. Send Stryker." And Aunt Tillie ran indoors. Peter was still quite unconscious, but between them they managed to get him upstairs. McGuire seemed now galvanized into activity and while the others cut Peter's coat away and found the wound he got Hammonton and a doctor on the 'phone. It was twelve miles away but he promised to be at Black Rock House inside half an hour. "Twenty minutes and you won't regret it. Drive like Hell. It's a matter of life or death." Meanwhile, Aunt Tillie, with anxious glances at Beth, had brought absorbent cotton, clean linen, a basin of water and a sponge, and Stryker and Brierly washed the wound, while McGuire rushed for his bottle and managed to force some whisky and water between Peter's teeth. The bullet they found had gone through the body and had come out at the back, shattering the shoulder-blade. But the hemorrhage had almost ceased and the wounded man's heart was still beating faintly. "It's the blood he's lost," muttered Brierly sagely. "He'll come around all right. You can't kill a man as game as that." Beth clung to the arms of the chair in which they had placed her. "You think--he--he'll live?" "Sure he will. I've seen 'em worse'n that----" She sank back into her chair, exhausted. She had never fainted in her life and she wasn't going to begin. But now that all that they could do had been done for Peter, they turned their attention to Beth. She had not known how much she needed it. Her hair was singed, her wrists were raw and bleeding, and her arms, half naked, were red and blistered. Her dress, soaked with mud and water, was partly torn or burned away. "She must be put to bed here, Mrs. Bergen," said McGuire. "She'll need the doctor too." Beth protested and would not leave the room until the doctor came. But McGuire, who seemed--and somewhat justly--to have complete faith in the efficacy of his own remedy, gave her some of the whisky and water to drink, while Aunt Tillie washed her face and rubbed vaseline upon her arms, crooning over her all the while in the comforting way of women of her kind, to the end that Beth felt the pain of her body lessen. It was not until the doctor arrived with a businesslike air and made his examination, pronouncing Peter's condition serious but not necessarily fatal, that the tension at Beth's heart relaxed. "He--he'll get well, Doctor?" she asked timidly. "I think so," he said with a smile, "but we've got to have absolute quiet now. I'd like some one here to help me----" "If you'd only let me----" But she read refusal in his eyes as he looked at her critically, and saw him choose Stryker. "You're to be put to bed at once," he said dryly. "You'll need attention too, I'm thinking." And so Beth, with McGuire's arm supporting and Aunt Tillie's arm around her, was led to the room adjoining,--the pink room of Miss Peggy McGuire. McGuire closed the door and questioned her eagerly. "You say Hawk Kennedy was killed----?" "I think so--or--or burned," said Beth, now quivering in the reaction of all that she had experienced. "I--I sent Shad Wells to see. We left him lying there. We just had time to get away. The fire was all around. We got to the swamp--into the water--but he----" She put her face into her hands, trembling with the recollection. "It was horrible. I can't talk about it." Aunt Tillie glared at McGuire, but he still questioned uneasily. "You--you saw nothing of a blue envelope, a paper----" With an effort Beth lowered her hands and replied: "No--Peter--Mr. Nichols thought of it. Shad Wells will bring it--if it isn't burned." "Oh, I see----" "But what you can't see," broke in Aunt Tillie with spirit, "is that the poor child ain't fit to answer any more questions to-night. And she shan't." "Er--no--of course," said McGuire, and went out. If it had been an eventful day for Peter and Beth, the night was to prove eventful for McGuire, for not content to wait the arrival of Shad Wells, he took his courage in his hands and with Brierly drove at once to the scene of the disaster. The wind had died and a gentle rain began to fall, but the fire was burning fiercely. The other matter in McGuire's thoughts was so much the more important to him that he had given little thought to the damage to his property. His forests might all be burned down for all that he cared. At the spot to which Beth and Peter had been carried he met Shad and the party of men that had been looking for Hawk Kennedy, but the place where the fight had taken place was still a mass of fallen trees and branches all flaming hotly and it was impossible for any one to get within several hundred yards of it. There seemed little doubt as to the fate of his enemy. Jonathan K. McGuire stood at the edge of the burned area, peering into the glowing embers. His look was grim but there was no smile of triumph at his lips. In his moments of madness he had often wished Hawk Kennedy dead, but never had he wished him such a death as this. He questioned Shad sharply as to his share in the adventure, satisfying himself at last that the man had told a true story, and then, noting his wounded arm, sent him back with Brierly in the car to Black Rock House for medical treatment with orders to send the chauffeur with the limousine. The rain was now falling fast, but Jonathan K. McGuire did not seem to be aware of it. His gaze was on the forest, on that of the burning area nearest him where the fire still flamed the hottest, beneath the embers of which lay the one dreadful secret of his life. Even where he stood the heat was intense, but he did not seem to be aware of it, nor did he follow the others when they retreated to a more comfortable spot. No one knew why he waited or of what he was thinking, unless of the damage to the Reserve and what the loss in money meant to him. They could not guess that pity and fear waged their war in his heart--pity that any man should die such a death--fear that the man he thought of should not die it. But as the hours lengthened and there was no report brought to him of any injured man, being found in the forest near by, he seemed to know that Peter Nichols had not struck for Beth in vain. When the limousine came, he sent the other watchers home, and got into it, sitting in solitary grandeur in his wet clothing, peering out of the window. The glow of the flames grew dimmer and died at last with the first pale light to the eastward which announced the coming of the dawn. A light drizzle was still falling when it grew light enough to see. McGuire got down and without awakening the sleeping chauffeur went forth into the spectral woods. He knew where the old tool cabin had stood and, from the description Wells had given him, had gained a general idea of where the fight had taken place--two hundred yards from the edge of the swamp where Nichols and the Cameron girl had been found, and nearly in a line with the biggest of the swamp-maples, the trunk of which still stood, a melancholy skeleton of its former grandeur. The ground was still hot under the mud and cinders, but not painfully so, and he was not aware of any discomfort. Clouds of steam rose and among them he moved like the ghost of a sin, bent, eager, searching with heavy eyes for what he hoped and what he feared to find. The old tool house had disappeared, but he saw a heap of ashes and among them the shapes of saws and iron picks and shovels. But he passed them by, making a straight line to the eastward and keeping his gaze upon the charred and blackened earth, missing nothing to right and left, fallen branches, heaps of rubbish, mounds of earth. Suddenly startled, McGuire halted and stood for a long moment.... Then, his hand before his eyes he turned away and slowly made his way back to his automobile. But there was no triumph in his eyes. A power greater than his own had avenged Ben Cameron. His vigil was over--his nightly vigil--the vigil of years. He made his way to his car and, awakening his chauffeur, told him to drive to Black Rock House. But when he reached home, the set look that his face had worn for so many weeks had disappeared. And in its place among the relaxed muscles which showed his years, sat the benignity of a new resolution. It was broad daylight when he quietly knocked at the door of the room in which the injured man lay. The doctor came to the door. It seemed that all immediate danger of a further collapse had passed for the heart was stronger and unless there was a setback Peter Nichols had an excellent chance of recovery. McGuire himself offered to watch beside the bed; but the doctor explained that a trained nurse was already on the way from Philadelphia and would arrive at any moment. So McGuire went to his own room and, sinking into his armchair, slept for the first time in many weeks at peace, smiling his benignant smile. * * * * * Beth awoke in the pink room of Miss Peggy McGuire in which she had been put to bed. She lay for a moment still stupefied, her brain struggling against the effects of the sleeping potion that the doctor had given her and then slowly straightened to a sitting posture, regarding in bewilderment the embroidered night-robe which she wore and the flowered pink hangings at the windows. She couldn't at first understand the pain at her head and other aches and pains which seemed to come mysteriously into being. But she heard a familiar voice at her ear and saw the anxious face of Aunt Tillie, who rose from the chair at her bedside. "Aunt Tillie!" she whispered. "It's all right, dearie," said the old woman. "You're to lie quite still until the doctor sees you----" "The doctor----? Oh, I--I remember----" And then with a sudden awakening to full consciousness--"Peter!" she gasped. "He's better, dearie." "But what does the doctor say?" "He's doin' as well as possible----" "Will he get well?" "Yes, yes. The doctor is very hopeful." "You're sure?" "Yes. He's sleepin' now--quiet--ye'd better just lie back again." "But I want to go to him, Aunt Tillie. I want to." "No. Ye can't, dearie--not now." And so by dint of reassurance and persuasion, Aunt Tillie prevailed upon the girl to lie back upon her pillows and after a while she slept again. But Beth was no weakling and when the doctor came into her room some time later, the effects of her potion wearing away, she awoke to full consciousness. He saw the imploring question in her eyes, before he took her pulse and answered it with a quick smile. "He's all right. Heart coming on nicely----" "Will h-he live?" she gasped. "He'll be a fool if he doesn't." "What----?" "I'd be, if I knew there was a girl like you in the next room with that kind of look in her eyes asking for me." But his remark went over Beth's head. "He's better?" "Yes. Conscious too. But he'll have to be kept quiet." "D-did he speak of me?" The doctor was taking her pulse and put on a professional air which hid his inward smiles and provoked a repetition of her question. "D-did he?" she repeated softly. "Oh, yes," he said with a laugh. "He won't talk of anything else. I had to give him a hypodermic to make him stop." Beth was silent for a moment. And then timidly---- "What did he say?" "Oh, just that you saved his life, that's all." "Nothing else?" "Oh, yes. Now that I come to think of it, he did." "What?" "That he wanted to see you." "Oh! And can I----?" The doctor snapped his watch and relinquished her wrist with a smile. "If everything goes well--to-morrow--for two minutes--just two minutes, you understand." "Not until to-morrow?" she asked ruefully. "You ought to be glad to see him alive at all. He had a narrow shave of it. An inch or two lower----" And then with a smile, "But he's going to get well, I promise you that." "Oh, thanks," said Beth gratefully. "Don't worry. And if you behave yourself I'll let you get up after lunch." He gave some directions to Mrs. Bergen as to the treatment of Beth's blistered arms, and went out. So in spite of the pain that she still suffered, Beth was content. At least she was content until Aunt Tillie brought her Miss Peggy McGuire's silver hand-mirror and she saw the reflection of her once beautiful self. "Aunt Tillie!" she gasped. "I'm a sight." "Maybe--but that's a sight better than bein' burned to death," said the old lady, soberly. "My hair----!" "It's only frizzled. They say that's good for the hair," she said cheerfully. "Oh, well," sighed Beth as she laid the mirror down beside her. "I guess I ought to be glad I'm alive after----" And then with an uncontrollable shudder, she asked, "And--and--_him_?" "Dead," said Aunt Tillie with unction. "Burned to a crisp." Beth gasped but said nothing more. She didn't want to think of yesterday, but she couldn't help it--the horrors that she had passed through--the fate that might have been in store for her, if--Peter hadn't found her in time! Beth relaxed in comfort while Aunt Tillie bathed and anointed her, brushed out the hair that was "frizzled," refreshing and restoring her patient, so that after lunch she got up and put on the clothing that had been brought from her home. Her arms were swathed in bandages from wrists to shoulders but the pain was much less, so, when McGuire knocked at the door and asked if he might see her, she was sitting in a chair by the window and greeted him with a smile. He entered timidly and awkwardly, rubbing his fingers uncomfortably against the palms of his hands. "They tell me you're feelin' better, Miss Cameron," he said soberly. "I--I'd like to talk to you for a moment," and with a glance at Aunt Tillie, "alone if you don't mind." Aunt Tillie gathered up some bandages and grudgingly departed. McGuire came forward slowly and sank into a chair beside Beth's, laying his hand timidly on hers. "I thank God nothing happened to you, child, and I hope you believe me when I say it," he began in an uncertain voice. "Oh, yes, sir, I do." "Because the only thing that matters to me now is setting myself straight with you and Mr. Nichols." He paused in a difficulty of speech and then went on. "He--Mr. Nichols has told you everything----?" Beth wagged her head like a solemn child and then laid her other hand on his. "Oh, I'm so sorry for you," she said. "You mustn't say that," he muttered. "I--I've done you a great wrong--not trying to find out about Ben Cameron--not trying to find _you_. But I've suffered for it, Miss----" And then eagerly----"You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?" "No, Mr. McGuire." "I ought to have told what happened. I ought to have tried to find out if Ben Cameron had any kin. I did wrong. But I've paid for it. I've never had a happy hour since I claimed that mine that didn't belong to me. I've made a lot of money but what I did has been hanging over me for years making an old man of me before my time----" "Oh, please don't be unhappy any more----" "Let me talk Miss--Beth. I've got to tell you. It'll make me feel a lot easier." Beth smoothed his hand reassuringly and he clasped hers eagerly as though in gratitude. "I never was much good when I was a lad, Beth, and I never could get along even after I got married. It wasn't in me somehow. I was pretty straight as young fellows go but nothing went right for me. I was a failure. And then----" He paused a moment with bent head but Beth didn't speak. It was all very painful to her. "Hawk Kennedy killed your father. But I was a crook too. I left Hawk there without water to die. It was a horrible thing to do--even after what he'd done to me. My God! Maybe I didn't suffer for that! I was glad when I learned Hawk didn't die, even though I knew from that time that he'd be hanging over me like a curse. He did for years and years. I knew he'd turn up some day, I tried to forget, but I couldn't. The sight of him was always with me." "How terrible!" whispered Beth. "But from that moment everything I did went well. Money came fast. I wasn't a bad business man, but even a bad business man could have put _that_ deal through. I sold out the mine. I've got the figures and I'm going to show them to you, because they're yours to see. With the money I made some good investments. That money made more money and more besides. Making money got to be my passion. It was the only thing I cared for--except my girls--and it was the only thing that made me forget." "Please don't think you've got to tell me any more." "Yes, I want to. I don't know how much I'm worth to-day." And then in a confidential whisper--"I couldn't tell within half a million or so, but I guess it ain't far short of ten millions, Beth. You're the only person in the world outside the Treasury Department that knows how much I'm worth. I'm telling you. I've never told anybody--not even Peggy. And the reason I'm telling you is because, you've got to know, because I can't sleep sound yet, until I straighten this thing out with you. It didn't take much persuading for Mr. Nichols to show me what I had to do when he'd found out, because everything I've got comes from money I took from you. And I'm going to give you what belongs to you, the full amount I got for that mine with interest to date. It's not mine. It's yours and you're a rich girl, Beth----" "I won't know what to do with all that money, Mr. McGuire," said Beth in an awed voice. "Oh, yes, you will. I've been thinking it all out. It's a deed by gift. We'll have to have a consideration to make it binding. We may have to put in the facts that I've been--er--only a sort of trustee of the proceeds of the 'Tarantula' mine. I've got a good lawyer. He'll know what to do--how to fix it." "I--I'm sure I'm very grateful." "You needn't be." He paused and laid his hand over hers again. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have much talk about it--just what's said in the deed--to explain." "I'll say nothin' you don't want said." "I knew you wouldn't. Until the papers are drawn I'd rather you wouldn't speak of it." "I won't." "You're a good girl. I--I'd like to see you happy. If money will make you happy, I'm glad I can help." "You've been very kind, Mr. McGuire--and generous. I can't seem to think about all that money. It's just like a fairy tale." "And you forgive me--for what I did----? You forgive me, Beth?" "Yes, I do, Mr. McGuire. Don't say anythin' more about it--please!" The old man bent his head and kissed her hand and then with a great sigh of relief straightened and rose. "Thank God!" he said quietly. And bidding her good-by he walked from the room. CHAPTER XXIII A VISITOR The two minutes permitted by the doctor had come and gone. There had been much to say with too little time to say it in. For Beth, admonished that the patient must be kept quiet, and torn between joy at Peter's promised recovery and pity for his pale face, could only look at him and murmur soothing phrases, while Peter merely smiled and held her hand. But that, it seemed, was enough, for Beth read in his eyes that what had happened had merely set an enduring seal upon the affection of both of them. With the promise that she could see him again on the morrow, Beth went back to her room. She had wanted to return to the village, but McGuire had insisted upon her staying where she was under the care of the doctor until what they were pleased to call the shock to her system had yielded to medical treatment. Beth said nothing. She was already herself and quite able to take up her life just where she had left it, but she agreed to stay in McGuire's house. It seemed to make him happier when she acquiesced in his wishes. Besides, it was nice to be waited on and to be next to the room where the convalescent was. But the revelation as to Peter's identity could not be long delayed. Brierly had brought the tale back from the lumber camp, and the village was all agog with excitement. But Beth had seen no one but Mr. McGuire and Aunt Tillie, and Peter had requested that no one should tell her but himself. And so in a day or so when Beth went into Peter's room she found him with a color in his cheeks, and wearing a quizzical smile. "I thought you were never coming, Beth," he said. "I came as soon as they'd let me, Peter. Do you feel stronger?" "Every hour. Better when you're here. And you?" "Oh, I'm all right." He looked at her with his head on one side. "Do you think you could stand hearing something very terrible about me, Beth?" She glanced at him anxiously and then a smile of perfect faith responded to his. She knew that he was getting well now, because this was a touch of his old humor. "H-m. I guess so. I don't believe it can be so _very_ terrible, Peter." "It is--_very_ terrible, Beth." But the pressure of his fingers was reassuring. "I'm listenin'," she said. "Well, you know, you told me once that you'd marry me no matter what I'd been----" "Yes. I meant that, Peter. I mean it now. It's what you are----" Peter Nichols chuckled. It was his last chuckle as Peter Nichols. "Well, I'm not what you thought I was. I've been acting under false colors--under false pretenses. My name isn't Peter Nichols. It's Peter Nicholaevitch----" "Then you _are_ all Russian!" she said. Peter shook his head. "No. Only half of me. But I used to live in Russia--at a place called Zukovo. The thing I wanted to tell you was that they fired me out because they didn't want me there." "You! How dared they! I'd like to give them a piece of my mind," said Beth indignantly. "It wouldn't have done any good. I tried to do that." "And wouldn't they listen?" "No. They burned my--my house and tried to shoot me." "Oh! How could they!" And then, gently, "Oh, Peter. You _have_ had troubles, haven't you?" "I don't mind. If I hadn't had them, I wouldn't have come here and I wouldn't have found you." "So after all, I ought to be glad they did fire you out," she said gently. "But aren't you curious to know _why_ they did?" "I am, if you want to tell me, but even if it was bad, I don't care _what_ you did, Peter." He took her fingers to his lips. "It wasn't so very bad after all, Beth. It wasn't so much what I did as what my--er--my family had done that made them angry." "Well, _you_ weren't responsible for what your kin-folks did." Peter laughed softly. "_They_ seemed to think so. My--er--my kin-folks were mixed up in politics in Russia and one of my cousins had a pretty big job--too big a job for _him_ and that's the truth." A cloud passed for a moment over Peter's face and he looked away. "But what did _his_ job have to do with _you_?" she asked. "Well, you see, we were all mixed up with him, just by being related--at least that's what the people thought. And so when my cousin did a lot of things the people thought he oughtn't to do and didn't do a lot of other things that they thought he _ought_ to have done, they believed that I was just the same sort of man that he was." "How unjust, Peter!" He smiled at the ceiling. "I thought so. I told them what I thought. I did what I could to straighten things out and to help them, but they wouldn't listen. Instead they burned my--my house down and I had to run away." "How terrible for you!" And then, after a pause, "Was it a pretty house, Peter?" "Yes," he replied slowly, "it was. A very pretty house--in the midst of a forest, with great pines all about it. I wish they hadn't burned that house, Beth, because I loved it." "Poor dear! I'm _so_ sorry." "I thought you would be, because it was a big house, with pictures, books, music----" "All burned! Land's sakes alive!" "And a wonderful grand piano." "Oh, Peter!" And then with a flash of joy, "But you're goin' to have another grand piano just like it soon." "Am I? Who's going to give it to me?" "_I_ am," said Beth quietly. "And another house and pictures and books and music." He read her expression eagerly. "Mr. McGuire has told you?" he asked. She nodded. "You knew?" "Yes," he replied. "He told me yesterday." "Isn't it wonderful?" she whispered. And then went on rapidly, "So you see, Peter, maybe I can be some good to you after all." He pressed her fingers, enjoying her happiness. "I can hardly believe it's true," she gasped, "but it must be, because Mr. McGuire had his lawyer here yesterday talkin' about it----" "Yes. It's true. I think he's pretty happy to get all that off his conscience. You're a rich girl, Beth." And then, with a slow smile, "That was one of the reasons why I wanted to talk with you about who _I_ was. You see, I thought that now that you're going to have all this money, you might want to change your mind about marrying a forester chap who--who just wants to try to show the trees how to grow." "Peter! Don't make fun of me. _Please._ And you hurt me so!" she reproached him. "You know I'll never want to change my mind ever, _ever_--even if I had all the money in the world." He laughed, drew her face down to his and whispered, "Beth, dear. I knew you wouldn't want to--but I just wanted to hear you say it." "Well, I _have_ said it. And I don't want you ever to say such a thing again. As if I cared for anythin'--anythin' but _you_." He kissed her on the lips and she straightened. "I wanted to hear you say _that_ too," he said with a laugh. And then, after a silence which they both improved by gazing at each other mutely, "But you don't seem very curious about who I am." Beth pressed his fingers confidently. What he was to _her_ mattered a great deal--and she realized that nothing else did. But she knew that something was required of her. And so, "Oh, yes. Indeed I am, Peter,--awfully curious," she said politely. "Well, you know, Beth, I'm not really so poor as I seem to be. I've got a lot of securities in a bank in Russia, because nobody knew where they were and so they couldn't take them." "And they would have taken your money too?" "Yes. When this cousin of mine--his name was Nicholas--when Nicholas was killed----" "They killed him! Who?" "The Bolsheviki--they killed Nicholas and his whole family--his wife, son and four daughters----" "Peter!" Beth started up and stared at him in startled bewilderment, as she remembered the talks she had had with him about the Russian Revolution. "Nicholas----!" she gasped. "His wife--son--daughters. He had the same name as--as the Czar--!" And as her gaze met his again she seemed to guess.... "Peter!" she gasped. "What--what do you mean?" "I mean that it was the Little Father--the Czar--who was my cousin, Beth." She stared at Peter in awe and a kind of fear of this new element in their relations. "And--and you----? You're----?" "I'm just Peter Nichols----," he said with a laugh. "But over there----" "I'm nothing. They chucked us all out, the Bolsheviki--every last one of us that had a handle to his name." "A handle----?" "Yes. I used to be Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch of Zukovo and Galitzin----" "G-Grand Duke Peter!" she whispered in a daze. And then, "Oh--how--how _could_ you?" she gasped. Peter laughed. "I couldn't help it, Beth. I was born that--way. But you _will_ forgive me, won't you?" "Forgive----? Oh--it--it makes such a difference to find--you're not _you_--but somebody else----" "No. I _am_--_me_. I'm not anybody else. But I had to tell you--sometime. You don't think any the less of me, do you, Beth?" "I--I don't know _what_ to think. I'm so--you're so----" "What?" "Grand--and I'm----" Peter caught her hands and made her look at him. "You're the only woman in the world I've ever wanted--the only one--and you've promised me you'd marry me--you've promised, Beth." Her fingers moved gently in his and her gaze, wide-eyed, sought his. "And it won't make any difference----?" "No, Beth. Why should you think that?" "I--I was afraid--it might," she gasped. And then for a while Peter held her hands, whispering, while Beth, still abashed, answered in monosyllables, nodding from time to time. Later the nurse entered, her glance on her wrist-watch. "Time's up," she said. And Beth rose as one in a dream and moved slowly around the foot of the bed to the door. * * * * * Jonathan K. McGuire had been as much astonished as Beth at the revelation of Peter's identity, and the service that Peter had rendered him made him more than anxious to show his appreciation by doing everything he could for the wounded man's comfort and happiness. He visited the bedside daily and told Peter of his conversation with Beth, and of the plans that he was making for her future--which now, it seemed, was Peter's future also. Peter told him something of his own history and how he had met Jim Coast on the _Bermudian_. Then McGuire related the story of the suppression of the outbreak at the lumber camp by the Sheriff and men from May's Landing, and the arrest of Flynn and Jacobi on charges of assault and incendiarism. Some of the men were to be deported as dangerous "Reds." Brierly had been temporarily put in charge at the Mills and Jesse Brown, now much chastened, was helping McGuire to restore order. Shad Wells was technically under arrest, for the coroner had "viewed" the body of the Russian Committeeman before it had been removed by his friends and buried, and taken the testimony. But McGuire had given bail and arranged for a hearing both as to the shooting of and the death of Hawk Kennedy, when Peter was well enough to go to May's Landing. The death of Hawk had produced a remarkable change in the character and personality of the owner of the Black Rock Reserve. His back was straighter, his look more direct, and he entered with avidity into the business of bringing order out of the chaos that had resulted from the riot. His word carried some weight, his money more, and with the completion of his arrangements with Beth Cameron, he drew again the breath of a free man. But of all this he had said nothing to Peggy, his daughter. He had neither written to her nor telephoned, for he had no desire that she should know more than the obvious facts as to the death of Hawk Kennedy, for conflicting reports would lead to questions. Since she had suspected nothing, it was needless to bring that horror to her notice, now that the threat had passed. McGuire was a little afraid of his colorful daughter. She talked too much and it had been decided that nobody, except the lawyer, Peter, Beth and Mrs. Bergen should know the source of Beth's sudden and unexpected inheritance. The girl had merely fallen heir to the estate of her father, who had died many years before, not leaving any record of this daughter, who had at last been found. All of which was the truth, so far as it went, and was enough of a story to tell Peggy when he should see her. But Jonathan McGuire found himself somewhat disturbed when he learned one morning over the telephone that Peggy McGuire and a guest were on their way to Black Rock House for the week-end. The message came from the clerk of the hotel, and since Peggy and her friend had already started from New York, he knew of no way to intercept them. There was nothing to do but make the best of the situation. Peter had the best guest room, but Beth had decided the day before to return to the cottage, which was greatly in need of her attention. And so McGuire informed Mrs. Bergen of the impending visit and gave orders that Miss Peggy's room and a room in the wing should be prepared for the newcomers. Beth had no wish to meet Peggy McGuire in this house after the scene with Peter in the Cabin, when the young lady had last visited Black Rock, for that encounter had given Beth glimpses of the kind of thoughts beneath the pretty toques and _cerise_ veils that had once been the apple of her admiring eyes. But as luck would have it, as Beth finished her afternoon's visit to Peter's bedside and hurried down to get away to the village before the visitors arrived, Miss Peggy's low runabout roared up to the portico. Beth's first impulse was to draw back and go out through the kitchen, but the glances of the two girls met, Peggy's in instant recognition. And so Beth tilted her chin and walked down the steps just beside the machine, aware of an elegantly attired lady with a doll-like prettiness who sat beside Peggy, oblivious of the sharp invisible daggers which shot from eye to eye. "_You_ here!" said Peggy, with an insulting shrug. Beth merely went her way. But no feminine adept of the art of give and take could have showed a more perfect example of studied indifference than Beth did. It was quite true that her cheeks burned as she went down the drive and that she wished that Peter were well out of the house so long as Peggy was in it. But Peggy McGuire could know nothing of Beth's feelings and cared not at all what she thought or felt. Peggy McGuire was too much concerned with the importance of the visitor that she had brought with her, the first live princess that she had succeeded in bringing into captivity. But Anastasie Galitzin had not missed the little by-play and inquired with some amusement as to the very pretty girl who had come out of the house. "Oh--the housekeeper's niece," replied Peggy, in her boarding school French. "I don't like her. I thought she'd gone. She's been having a _petite affaire_ with our new forester and superintendent." Anastasie Galitzin, who was in the act of descending from the machine, remained poised for a moment, as it were, in midair, staring at her hostess. "Ah!" she said. "_Vraiment!_" By this time the noise of the motor had brought Stryker and the downstairs maid from the house, and in the confusion of carrying the luggage indoors, the conversation terminated. It was not until Peggy's noisy greetings to her father in the hallway were concluded and the introduction of her new guest accomplished that Jonathan McGuire was permitted to tell her in a few words the history of the past week, and of the injury to the superintendent, who lay upstairs in the room of the guest of honor. "H-m," sniffed Peggy, "I don't see why you had to bring him _here_!" "It's a long story, Peg," said McGuire calmly. "I'll tell you presently. Of course the Princess is very welcome, but I couldn't let him be taken anywhere but here, after he'd behaved so fine all through the rioting." "Well, it seems to me," Peggy began, when the voice of her guest cut in rather sharply. "_Pierre!_" gasped Anastasie sharply, and then, in her pretty broken English, "You say, Monsieur, it is he--Pe-ter Nichols--who 'as been badly 'urt?" "Yes, ma'am, pretty bad--shot through the breast----" "_Sainte Vierge!_" "But he's getting on all right now. He'll be sitting up in a day or so, the doctor says. Did you know him, ma'am?" Anastasie Galitzin made no reply, and only stared at her host, breathing with some difficulty. Peggy, who had been watching her startled face, found herself intensely curious. But as she would have questioned, the Princess recovered herself with an effort. "No--yes, Monsieur. It--it is nothing. But if you please--I should like to go at once to my room." And Peggy and her father, both of them much mystified, led the way up the stairs and to the room that had been prepared in the wing of the house, Stryker following with the bag and dressing case. At the door of the room the Princess begged Peggy to excuse her, pleading weariness, and so the astonished and curious hostess was forced to relinquish her latest social conquest and seek her own room, there to meditate upon the extraordinary thing that had happened. Why was Anastasie Galitzin so perturbed at learning of the wounds of Peter Nichols? What did it all mean? Had she known him somewhere in the past--in England--in Russia? What was he to her? But in a moment Jonathan McGuire joined her and revealed the identity of his mysterious forester and superintendent. At first Peggy was incredulous, then listened while her father told a story, half true, half fictitious, which had been carefully planned to answer all the requirements of the situation. And unaware of the cyclonic disturbances he was causing in the breast of his only child, he told her of Beth and Peter, and of the evidences of their devotion each to the other in spite of their difference in station. Peggy's small soul squirmed during the recital, but she only listened and said nothing. She realized that in a situation such as this mere words on her part would be superfluous. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch! Here at Black Rock! Her pop's superintendent! And she had not known. She had even insulted him. It was hideous! And the Princess? The deep emotion that she had shown on hearing of the dangerous wound of the convalescent was now explained. But only partly so. The look that Peggy had surprised in Anastasie Galitzin's face meant something more than mere solicitude for the safety of one of Russia's banished Grand Dukes. It was the Princess who had been shocked at the information, but it was the woman who had showed pain. Was there--had there ever been--anything between Anastasie Galitzin and this--this Peter Nichols? Facts about the early stages of her acquaintanceship with Anastasie Galitzin now loomed up with an unpleasant definiteness. She had been much flattered that so important a personage had shown her such distinguished marks of favor and had rejoiced in the celerity with which the intimacy had been established. The thought that the Princess Galitzin had known all the while that the Grand Duke was living incognito at Black Rock and had merely used Peggy as a means to bring about this visit was not a pleasant one to Peggy. But the fact was now quite obvious. She had been making a convenience of her. And what was now to be the result of this visit? The Princess did not yet know of the engagement of His Highness to the scullery maid. Who was to tell her? The snobbish little heart of Peggy McGuire later gained some consolation, for Anastasie Galitzin emerged from her room refreshed and invigorated, and lent much grace to the dinner table, telling father and daughter something of the early life of the convalescent, exhibiting a warm friendship which could be satisfied with nothing less than a visit on the morrow to the sick-room. And His Highness now very much on the mend, sent word, with the doctor's permission, that he would be charmed to receive the Princess Galitzin at ten in the morning. What happened in the room of the convalescent was never related to Peggy McGuire. But Anastasie emerged with her head erect, her pretty face wearing the fixed smile of the eternally bored. And then she told Peggy that she had decided to return to New York. So after packing her belongings, she got into Peggy's car and was driven much against the will of her hostess to the Bergen cottage. Peggy wouldn't get out of the car but Anastasie went to the door and knocked. Beth came out with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her fingers covered with flour. The Princess Galitzin vanished inside and the door was closed. Her call lasted ten minutes while Peggy cooled her heels. But whether the visit had been prompted by goodness of heart or whether by a curiosity to study the lady of Peter's choice at close range, no one will ever know. Beth was very polite to her and though she identified her without difficulty as the heliotrope-envelope lady, she offered her some of the "cookies" that she had made for Peter, and expressed the warmest thanks for her kind wishes. She saw Anastasie Galitzin to the door, marking her heightened color and wondering what her fur coat had cost. Beth couldn't help thinking, whatever her motive in coming, that the Princess Galitzin was a very beautiful lady and that her manners had been lovely. But it was with a sigh of relief that she saw the red car vanish down the road in a cloud of dust. * * * * * His convalescence begun, Peter recovered rapidly and in three weeks more he was himself again. In those three weeks many interesting things had happened. Jonathan K. McGuire had held a series of important conferences with Peter and Mrs. Bergen who seemed to have grown ten years younger. And one fine day after a protracted visit to New York with Mrs. Bergen, he returned laden with mysterious packages and boxes, and stopped at the door of the cottage, where Peter was taking a lunch of Beth's cooking. It was a beautiful surprise. Mrs. Bergen whispered in Beth's ear and Beth followed her into the kitchen, where the contents of one or two of the boxes were exposed to Beth's astonished gaze. Peter, of course, being in the secret, kept aloof, awaiting the result of Mrs. Bergen's disclosures. But when Beth came back into the plush-covered parlor, he revealed his share in the conspiracy by producing, with the skill of a conjurer taking a rabbit from a silk hat, a minister and a marriage license, the former having been hidden in the house of a neighbor. And Jonathan K. McGuire, with something of an air, fully justified by the difficulties he had been at to secure it, produced a pasteboard box, which contained another box of beautiful white velvet, which he opened with pride, exhibiting its contents. On the soft satin lining was a brooch, containing a ruby as large as Beth's thumbnail. With a gasp of joy, she gazed at it, for she knew just what it was, the family jewel that had been sold to the purser of the _Bermudian_. And then she threw her arms around McGuire's neck and kissed him. * * * * * Some weeks later Beth and Peter sat at dusk in the drawing-room of Black Rock House, for McGuire had turned the whole place over to them for the honeymoon. The night was chilly, a few flakes of snow had fallen during the afternoon, so a log fire burned in the fireplace. Peter sat at the piano playing the "Romance" of Sibelius, for which Beth had asked, but when it was finished, his fingers, impelled by a thought beyond his own control, began the opening rumble of the "Revolutionary Étude." The music was familiar to Beth and it stirred her always because it was this gorgeous plaint of hope and despair that had at the very first sounded depths in her own self the existence of which she had never even dreamed. But to-night Peter played it as she had never heard him play it before, with all his soul at his finger tips. And she watched his downcast profile as he stared at vacancy while he played. It was in moments like these that Beth felt herself groping in the dark after him, he was so far away. And yet she was not afraid, for she knew that out of the dreams and mysticism of the half of him that was Russian he would come back to her,--just Peter Nichols. He did presently, when his hands fell upon the last chords and he sat with head still bowed until the last tremor had died. Then he rose and turned to her. She smiled at him and he joined her on the divan. Their fingers intertwined and they sat for a long moment looking into the fire. But Beth knew of what he was thinking and Peter knew that she knew. Their honeymoon was over. There was work to do in the world. +-------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 9 Nicolaevitch changed to Nicholaevitch | | Page 12 Vasil changed to Vasili | | Page 39 reassuring changed to reassuring | | Page 90 rigidily changaed to rigidly | | Page 94 seee changed to see | | Page 158 Andy should read Jesse | | Page 164 the changed to he | | Page 188 Well's changed to Wells's | | Page 353 musn't changed to mustn't | | Page 355 Its changed to It's | | Page 362 Lukovo changed to Zukovo | +-------------------------------------------------+ 37536 ---- EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS FICTION THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JULIUS BRAMONT THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE COMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING THIRTEEN HEADINGS: TRAVEL SCIENCE FICTION THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY HISTORY CLASSICAL FOR YOUNG PEOPLE ESSAYS ORATORY POETRY & DRAMA BIOGRAPHY REFERENCE ROMANCE [Illustration: Decoration] IN FOUR STYLES OF BINDING: CLOTH, FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP; LEATHER, ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP; LIBRARY BINDING IN CLOTH, & QUARTER PIGSKIN LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. A TALE WHICH HOLDETH CHILDREN FROM PLAY & OLD MEN FROM THE CHIMNEY CORNER SIR PHILIP SIDNEY THE HOUSE _of the_ DEAD _or Prison Life in Siberia_ BY FEDOR DOSTOÏEFFSKY [Illustration: Decoration] LONDON: PUBLISHED by J.M. DENT & SONS LTD AND IN NEW YORK BY E. P. DUTTON & CO FIRST ISSUE OF THIS EDITION 1911 REPRINTED 1914 INTRODUCTION "The Russian nation is a new and wonderful phenomenon in the history of mankind. The character of the people differs to such a degree from that of the other Europeans that their neighbours find it impossible to diagnose them." This affirmation by Dostoïeffsky, the prophetic journalist, offers a key to the treatment in his novels of the troubles and aspirations of his race. He wrote with a sacramental fervour whether he was writing as a personal agent or an impersonal, novelist or journalist. Hence his rage with the calmer men, more gracious interpreters of the modern Sclav, who like Ivan Tourguenieff were able to see Russia on a line with the western nations, or to consider her maternal throes from the disengaged, safe retreat of an arm-chair exile in Paris. Not so was _l'âme Russe_ to be given her new literature in the eyes of M. Dostoïeffsky, strained with watching, often red with tears and anger. Those other nations, he said--proudly looking for the symptoms of the world-intelligence in his own--those other nations of Europe may maintain that they have at heart a common aim and a common ideal. In fact they are divided among themselves by a thousand interests, territorial or other. Each pulls his own way with ever-growing determination. It would seem that every individual nation aspires to the discovery of the universal ideal for humanity, and is bent on attaining that ideal by force of its own unaided strength. Hence, he argued, each European nation is an enemy to its own welfare and that of the world in general. To this very disassociation he attributed, without quite understanding the rest of us, our not understanding the Russian people, and our taxing them with "a lack of personality." We failed to perceive their rare synthetic power--that faculty of the Russian mind to read the aspirations of the whole of human kind. Among his own folk, he avowed, we would find none of the imperviousness, the intolerance, of the average European. The Russian adapts himself with ease to the play of contemporary thought and has no difficulty in assimilating any new idea. He sees where it will help his fellow-creatures and where it fails to be of value. He divines the process by which ideas, even the most divergent, the most hostile to one another, may meet and blend. Possibly, recognising this, M. Dostoïeffsky was the more concerned not to be too far depolarised, or say de-Russified, in his own works of fiction. But in truth he had no need to fear any weakening of his natural fibre and racial proclivities, or of the authentic utterance wrung out of him by the hard and cruel thongs of experience. We see the rigorous sincerity of his record again in the sheer autobiography contained in the present work, _The House of the Dead_. It was in the fatal winter of 1849 when he was with many others, mostly very young men like himself, sentenced to death for his liberal political propaganda; a sentence which was at the last moment commuted to imprisonment in the Siberian prisons. Out of that terror, which turned youth grey, was distilled the terrible reality of _The House of the Dead_. If one would truly fathom how deep that reality is, and what its phenomenon in literature amounts to, one should turn again to that favourite idyllic book of youth, by my countrywoman Mme. Cottin, _Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia_, and compare, for example, the typical scene of Elizabeth's sleep in the wooden chapel in the snow, where she ought to have been frozen to death but fared very comfortably, with the Siberian actuality of Dostoïeffsky. But he was no idyllist, though he could be tender as Mme. Cottin herself. What he felt about these things you can tell from his stories. If a more explicit statement in the theoretic side be asked of him, take this plain avowal from his confession books of 1870-77:-- "There is no denying that the people are morally ill, with a grave, although not a mortal, malady, one to which it is difficult to assign a name. May we call it 'An unsatisfied thirst for truth'? The people are seeking eagerly and untiringly for truth and for the ways that lead to it, but hitherto they have failed in their search. After the liberation of the serfs, this great longing for truth appeared among the people--for truth perfect and entire, and with it the resurrection of civic life. There was a clamouring for a 'new Gospel'; new ideas and feelings became manifest; and a great hope rose up among the people believing that these great changes were precursors of a state of things which never came to pass." There is the accent of his hope and his despair. Let it prove to you the conviction with which he wrote these tragic pages, one that is affecting at this moment the destiny of Russia and the spirit of us who watch her as profoundly moved spectators. JULIUS BRAMONT. BIBLIOGRAPHY (_Dostoïeffsky's works, so far as they have appeared in English._) Translations of Dostoïeffsky's novels have appeared as follows:--Buried Alive; or, Ten Years of Penal Servitude in Siberia, translated by Marie v. Thilo, 1881. In Vizetelly's One Volume Novels: Crime and Punishment, vol. 13; Injury and Insult, translated by F. Whishaw, vol. 17; The Friend of the Family and the Gambler, etc., vol. 22. In Vizetelly's Russian Novels: The Idiot, by F. Whishaw, 1887; Uncle's Dream; and, The Permanent Husband, etc., 1888. Prison Life in Siberia, translated by H. S. Edwards, 1888; Poor Folk, translated by L. Milman, 1894. See D. S. Merezhkovsky, Tolstoi as Man and Artist, with Essay on Dostoïeffsky, translated from the Russian, 1902; M. Baring, Landmarks in Russian Literature (chapter on Dostoïeffsky), 1910. CONTENTS PART I CHAP. PAGE I. TEN YEARS A CONVICT 1 II. THE DEAD-HOUSE 7 III. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 24 IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (_continued_) 43 V. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (_continued_) 61 VI. THE FIRST MONTH 80 VII. THE FIRST MONTH (_continued_) 95 VIII. NEW ACQUAINTANCES--PETROFF 110 IX. MEN OF DETERMINATION--LUKA 125 X. ISAIAH FOMITCH--THE BATH--BAKLOUCHIN 133 XI. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS 152 XII. THE PERFORMANCE 171 PART II I. THE HOSPITAL 194 II. THE HOSPITAL (_continued_) 209 III. THE HOSPITAL (_continued_) 225 IV. THE HUSBAND OF AKOULKA 248 V. THE SUMMER SEASON 264 VI. THE ANIMALS AT THE CONVICT ESTABLISHMENT 286 VII. GRIEVANCES 302 VIII. MY COMPANIONS 325 IX. THE ESCAPE 344 X. FREEDOM! 363 PRISON LIFE IN SIBERIA. PART I. CHAPTER I. TEN YEARS A CONVICT In the midst of the steppes, of the mountains, of the impenetrable forests of the desert regions of Siberia, one meets from time to time with little towns of a thousand or two inhabitants, built entirely of wood, very ugly, with two churches--one in the centre of the town, the other in the cemetery--in a word, towns which bear much more resemblance to a good-sized village in the suburbs of Moscow than to a town properly so called. In most cases they are abundantly provided with police-master, assessors, and other inferior officials. If it is cold in Siberia, the great advantages of the Government service compensate for it. The inhabitants are simple people, without liberal ideas. Their manners are antique, solid, and unchanged by time. The officials who form, and with reason, the nobility in Siberia, either belong to the country, deeply-rooted Siberians, or they have arrived there from Russia. The latter come straight from the capitals, tempted by the high pay, the extra allowance for travelling expenses, and by hopes not less seductive for the future. Those who know how to resolve the problem of life remain almost always in Siberia; the abundant and richly-flavoured fruit which they gather there recompenses them amply for what they lose. As for the others, light-minded persons who are unable to deal with the problem, they are soon bored in Siberia, and ask themselves with regret why they committed the folly of coming. They impatiently kill the three years which they are obliged by rule to remain, and as soon as their time is up, they beg to be sent back, and return to their original quarters, running down Siberia, and ridiculing it. They are wrong, for it is a happy country, not only as regards the Government service, but also from many other points of view. The climate is excellent, the merchants are rich and hospitable, the Europeans in easy circumstances are numerous; as for the young girls, they are like roses and their morality is irreproachable. Game is to be found in the streets, and throws itself upon the sportsman's gun. People drink champagne in prodigious quantities. The caviare is astonishingly good and most abundant. In a word, it is a blessed land, out of which it is only necessary to be able to make profit; and much profit is really made. It is in one of these little towns--gay and perfectly satisfied with themselves, the population of which has left upon me the most agreeable impression--that I met an exile, Alexander Petrovitch Goriantchikoff, formerly a landed proprietor in Russia. He had been condemned to hard labour of the second class for assassinating his wife. After undergoing his punishment--ten years of hard labour--he lived quietly and unnoticed as a colonist in the little town of K----. To tell the truth, he was inscribed in one of the surrounding districts; but he resided at K----, where he managed to get a living by giving lessons to children. In the towns of Siberia one often meets with exiles who are occupied with instruction. They are not looked down upon, for they teach the French language, so necessary in life, and of which without them one would not, in the distant parts of Siberia, have the least idea. I saw Alexander Petrovitch the first time at the house of an official, Ivan Ivanitch Gvosdikof, a venerable old man, very hospitable, and the father of five daughters, of whom the greatest hopes were entertained. Four times a week Alexander Petrovitch gave them lessons, at the rate of thirty kopecks silver a lesson. His external appearance interested me. He was excessively pale and thin, still young--about thirty-five years of age--short and weak, always very neatly dressed in the European style. When you spoke to him he looked at you in a very attentive manner, listening to your words with strict politeness, and with a reflective air, as though you had placed before him a problem or wished to extract from him a secret. He replied clearly and shortly; but in doing so, weighed each word, so that one felt ill at ease without knowing why, and was glad when the conversation came to an end. I put some questions to Ivan Gvosdikof in regard to him. He told me that Goriantchikoff was of irreproachable morals, otherwise Gvosdikof would not have entrusted him with the education of his children; but that he was a terrible misanthrope, who kept apart from all society; that he was very learned, a great reader, and that he spoke but little, and never entered freely into a conversation. Certain persons told him that he was mad; but that was not looked upon as a very serious defect. Accordingly, the most important persons in the town were ready to treat Alexander Petrovitch with respect, for he could be useful to them in writing petitions. It was believed that he was well connected in Russia. Perhaps, among his relations, there were some who were highly placed; but it was known that since his exile he had broken off all relations with them. In a word--he injured himself. Every one knew his story, and was aware that he had killed his wife, through jealousy, less than a year after his marriage; and that he had given himself up to justice; which had made his punishment much less severe. Such crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes, which must be treated with pity. Nevertheless, this original kept himself obstinately apart, and never showed himself except to give lessons. In the first instance I paid no attention to him; then, without knowing why, I found myself interested by him. He was rather enigmatic; to talk with him was quite impossible. Certainly he replied to all my questions; he seemed to make it a duty to do so; but when once he had answered, I was afraid to interrogate him any longer. After such conversations one could observe on his countenance signs of suffering and exhaustion. I remember that, one fine summer evening, I went out with him from the house of Ivan Gvosdikof. It suddenly occurred to me to invite him to come in with me and smoke a cigarette. I can scarcely describe the fright which showed itself in his countenance. He became confused, muttered incoherent words, and suddenly, after looking at me with an angry air, took to flight in an opposite direction. I was very much astonished afterwards, when he met me. He seemed to experience, on seeing me, a sort of terror; but I did not lose courage. There was something in him which attracted me. A month afterwards I went to see Petrovitch without any pretext. It is evident that, in doing so, I behaved foolishly, and without the least delicacy. He lived at one of the extreme points of the town with an old woman whose daughter was in a consumption. The latter had a little child about ten years old, very pretty and very lively. When I went in Alexander Petrovitch was seated by her side, and was teaching her to read. When he saw me he became confused, as if I had detected him in a crime. Losing all self-command, he suddenly stood up and looked at me with awe and astonishment. Then we both of us sat down. He followed attentively all my looks, as if I had suspected him of some mysterious intention. I understood he was horribly mistrustful. He looked at me as a sort of spy, and he seemed to be on the point of saying, "Are you not soon going away?" I spoke to him of our little town, of the news of the day, but he was silent, or smiled with an air of displeasure. I could see that he was absolutely ignorant of all that was taking place in the town, and that he was in no way curious to know. I spoke to him afterwards of the country generally, and of its men. He listened to me still in silence, fixing his eyes upon me in such a strange way that I became ashamed of what I was doing. I was very nearly offending him by offering him some books and newspapers which I had just received by post. He cast a greedy look upon them; he then seemed to alter his mind, and declined my offer, giving his want of leisure as a pretext. At last I wished him good-bye, and I felt a weight fall from my shoulders as I left the house. I regretted to have harassed a man whose tastes kept him apart from the rest of the world. But the fault had been committed. I had remarked that he possessed very few books. It was not true, then, that he read so much. Nevertheless, on two occasions when I drove past, I saw a light in his lodging. What could make him sit up so late? Was he writing, and if that were so, what was he writing? I was absent from our town for about three months. When I returned home in the winter, I learned that Petrovitch was dead, and that he had not even sent for a doctor. He was even now already forgotten, and his lodging was unoccupied. I at once made the acquaintance of his landlady, in the hope of learning from her what her lodger had been writing. For twenty kopecks she brought me a basket full of papers left by the defunct, and confessed to me that she had already employed four sheets in lighting her fire. She was a morose and taciturn old woman. I could not get from her anything that was interesting. She could tell me nothing about her lodger. She gave me to understand all the same that he scarcely ever worked, and that he remained for months together without opening a book or touching a pen. On the other hand, he walked all night up and down his room, given up to his reflections. Sometimes, indeed, he spoke aloud. He was very fond of her little grandchild, Katia, above all when he knew her name; on her name's-day--the day of St. Catherine--he always had a requiem said in the church for some one's soul. He detested receiving visits, and never went out except to give lessons. Even his landlady he looked upon with an unfriendly eye when, once a week, she came into his room to put it in order. During the three years he had passed with her, he had scarcely ever spoken to her. I asked Katia if she remembered him. She looked at me in silence, and turned weeping to the wall. This man, then, was loved by some one! I took away the papers, and passed the day in examining them. They were for the most part of no importance, merely children's exercises. At last I came to a rather thick packet, the sheets of which were covered with delicate handwriting, which abruptly ceased. It had perhaps been forgotten by the writer. It was the narrative--incoherent and fragmentary--of the ten years Alexander Petrovitch had passed in hard labour. This narrative was interrupted, here and there, either by anecdotes, or by strange, terrible recollections thrown in convulsively as if torn from the writer. I read some of these fragments again and again, and I began to doubt whether they had not been written in moments of madness; but these memories of the convict prison--"Recollections of the Dead-House," as he himself called them somewhere in his manuscript--seemed to me not without interest. They revealed quite a new world unknown till then; and in the strangeness of his facts, together with his singular remarks on this fallen people, there was enough to tempt me to go on. I may perhaps be wrong, but I will publish some chapters from this narrative, and the public shall judge for itself. CHAPTER II. THE DEAD-HOUSE Our prison was at the end of the citadel behind the ramparts. Looking through the crevices between the palisade in the hope of seeing something, one sees nothing but a little corner of the sky, and a high earthwork, covered with the long grass of the steppe. Night and day sentries walk to and fro upon it. Then one perceives from the first, that whole years will pass during which one will see by the same crevices between the palisades, upon the same earthwork, always the same sentinels and the same little corner of the sky, not just above the prison, but far and far away. Represent to yourself a court-yard, two hundred feet long, and one hundred and fifty feet broad, enclosed by an irregular hexagonal palisade, formed of stakes thrust deep into the earth. So much for the external surroundings of the prison. On one side of the palisade is a great gate, solid, and always shut; watched perpetually by the sentinels, and never opened, except when the convicts go out to work. Beyond this, there are light and liberty, the life of free people! Beyond the palisade, one thought of the marvellous world, fantastic as a fairy tale. It was not the same on our side. Here, there was no resemblance to anything. Habits, customs, laws, were all precisely fixed. It was the house of living death. It is this corner that I undertake to describe. On penetrating into the enclosure one sees a few buildings. On each side of a vast court are stretched forth two wooden constructions, made of trunks of trees, and only one storey high. These are convicts' barracks. Here the prisoners are confined, divided into several classes. At the end of the enclosure may be seen a house, which serves as a kitchen, divided into two compartments. Behind it is another building, which serves at once as cellar, loft, and barn. The centre of the enclosure, completely barren, is a large open space. Here the prisoners are drawn up in ranks, three times a day. They are identified, and must answer to their names, morning, noon, and evening, besides several times in the course of the day if the soldiers on guard are suspicious and clever at counting. All around, between the palisades and the buildings there remains a sufficiently large space, where some of the prisoners who are misanthropes, or of a sombre turn of mind, like to walk about when they are not at work. There they go turning over their favourite thoughts, shielded from all observation. When I met them during those walks of theirs, I took pleasure in observing their sad, deeply-marked countenances, and in guessing their thoughts. The favourite occupation of one of the convicts, during the moments of liberty left to him from his hard labour, was to count the palisades. There were fifteen hundred of them. He had counted them all, and knew them nearly by heart. Every one of them represented to him a day of confinement; but, counting them daily in this manner, he knew exactly the number of days that he had still to pass in the prison. He was sincerely happy when he had finished one side of the hexagon; yet he had to wait for his liberation many long years. But one learns patience in a prison. One day I saw a prisoner, who had undergone his punishment, take leave of his comrades. He had had twenty years' hard labour. More than one convict remembered seeing him arrive, quite young, careless, thinking neither of his crime nor of his punishment. He was now an old man with gray hairs, with a sad and morose countenance. He walked in silence through our six barracks. When he entered each of them he prayed before the holy image, made a deep bow to his former companions, and begged them not to keep a bad recollection of him. I also remember one evening, a prisoner, who had been formerly a well-to-do Siberian peasant, so called. Six years before he had had news of his wife's remarrying, which had caused him great pain. That very evening she had come to the prison, and had asked for him in order to make him a present! They talked together for two minutes, wept together, and then separated never to meet again. I saw the expression of this prisoner's countenance when he re-entered the barracks. There, indeed, one learns to support everything. When darkness set in we had to re-enter the barrack, where we were shut up for all the night. It was always painful for me to leave the court-yard for the barrack. Think of a long, low, stifling room, scarcely lighted by tallow candles, and full of heavy and disgusting odours. I cannot now understand how I lived there for ten entire years. My camp bedstead was made of three boards. This was the only place in the room that belonged to me. In one single room we herded together, more than thirty men. It was, above all, no wonder that we were shut up early. Four hours at least passed before every one was asleep, and, until then, there was a tumult and uproar of laughter, oaths, rattling of chains, a poisonous vapour of thick smoke; a confusion of shaved heads, stigmatised foreheads, and ragged clothes disgustingly filthy. Yes, man is a pliable animal--he must be so defined--a being who gets accustomed to everything! That would be, perhaps, the best definition that could be given of him. There were altogether two hundred and fifty of us in the same prison. This number was almost invariably the same. Whenever some of them had undergone their punishment, other criminals arrived, and a few of them died. Among them there were all sorts of people. I believe that each region of Russia had furnished its representatives. There were foreigners there, and even mountaineers from the Caucasus. All these people were divided into different classes, according to the importance of the crime; and consequently the duration of the punishment for the crime, whatever it might be, was there represented. The population of the prison was composed for the most part of men condemned to hard labour of the civil class--"strongly condemned," as the prisoners used to say. They were criminals deprived of all civil rights, men rejected by society, vomited forth by it, and whose faces were marked by the iron to testify eternally to their disgrace. They were incarcerated for different periods of time, varying from eight to ten years. At the expiration of their punishment they were sent to the Siberian districts in the character of colonists. As to the criminals of the military section, they were not deprived of their civil rights--as is generally the case in Russian disciplinary companies--but were punished for a relatively short period. As soon as they had undergone their punishment they had to return to the place whence they had come, and became soldiers in the battalions of the Siberian Line.[1] Many of them came back to us afterwards, for serious crimes, this time not for a small number of years, but for twenty at least. They then formed part of the section called "for perpetuity." Nevertheless, the perpetuals were not deprived of their right. There was another section sufficiently numerous, composed of the worst malefactors, nearly all veterans in crime, and which was called the special section. There were sent convicts from all the Russias. They looked upon one another with reason as imprisoned for ever, for the term of their confinement had not been indicated. The law required them to receive double and treble tasks. They remained in prison until work of the most painful character had to be undertaken in Siberia. "You are only here for a fixed time," they said to the other convicts; "we, on the contrary, are here for all our life." I have heard that this section has since been abolished. At the same time, civil convicts are kept apart, in order that the military convicts may be organised by themselves into a homogeneous "disciplinary company." The administration, too, has naturally been changed; consequently what I describe are the customs and practices of another time, and of things which have since been abolished. Yes, it was a long time ago; it seems to me that it is all a dream. I remember entering the convict prison one December evening, as night was falling. The convicts were returning from work. The roll-call was about to be made. An under officer with large moustaches opened to me the gate of this strange house, where I was to remain so many years, to endure so many emotions, and of which I could not form even an approximate idea, if I had not gone through them. Thus, for example, could I ever have imagined the poignant and terrible suffering of never being alone even for one minute during ten years? Working under escort in the barracks together with two hundred "companions;" never alone, never! However, I was obliged to get accustomed to it. Among them there were murderers by imprudence, and murderers by profession, simple thieves, masters in the art of finding money in the pockets of the passers-by, or of wiping off no matter what from the table. It would have been difficult, however, to say why and how certain prisoners found themselves among the convicts. Each of them had his history, confused and heavy, painful as the morning after a debauch. The convicts, as a rule, spoke very little of their past life, which they did not like to think of. They endeavoured, even, to dismiss it from their memory. Amongst my companions of the chain I have known murderers who were so gay and so free from care, that one might have made a bet that their conscience never made them the least reproach. But there were also men of sombre countenance who remained almost always silent. It was very rarely any one told his history. This sort of thing was not the fashion. Let us say at once that it was not received. Sometimes, however, from time to time, for the sake of change, a prisoner used to tell his life to another prisoner, who would listen coldly to the narrative. No one, to tell the truth, could have said anything to astonish his neighbour. "We are not ignoramuses," they would sometimes say with singular pride. I remember one day a ruffian who had got drunk--it was sometimes possible for the convicts to get drink--relating how he had killed and cut up a child of five. He had first tempted the child with a plaything, and then taking it to a loft, had cut it up to pieces. The entire barrack, which, generally speaking, laughed at his jokes, uttered one unanimous cry. The ruffian was obliged to be silent. But if the convicts had interrupted him, it was not by any means because his recital had caused their indignation, but because it was not allowed to speak of such things. I must here observe that the convicts possessed a certain degree of instruction. Half of them, if not more, knew how to read and write. Where in Russia, in no matter what population, could two hundred and fifty men be found able to read and write? Later on I have heard people say, and conclude on the strength of these abuses, that education demoralises the people. This is a mistake. Education has nothing whatever to do with moral deterioration. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that it develops a resolute spirit among the people. But this is far from being a defect. Each section had a different costume. The uniform of one was a cloth vest, half brown and half gray, and trousers with one leg brown, the other gray. One day while we were at work, a little girl who sold scones of white bread came towards the convicts. She looked at them for a time and then burst into a laugh. "Oh, how ugly they are!" she cried; "they have not even enough gray cloth or brown cloth to make their clothes." Every convict wore a vest made of gray cloth, except the sleeves, which were brown. Their heads, too, were shaved in different styles. The crown was bared sometimes longitudinally, sometimes latitudinally, from the nape of the neck to the forehead, or from one ear to another. This strange family had a general likeness so pronounced that it could be recognised at a glance. Even the most striking personalities, those who dominated involuntarily the other convicts, could not help taking the general tone of the house. Of the convicts--with the exception of a few who enjoyed childish gaiety, and who by that alone drew upon themselves general contempt--all the convicts were morose, envious, frightfully vain, presumptuous, susceptible, and excessively ceremonious. To be astonished at nothing was in their eyes the first and indispensable quality. Accordingly, their first aim was to bear themselves with dignity. But often the most composed demeanour gave way with the rapidity of lightning. With the basest humility some, however, possessed genuine strength; these were naturally all sincere. But strangely enough, they were for the most part excessively and morbidly vain. Vanity was always their salient quality. The majority of the prisoners were depraved and perverted, so that calumnies and scandal rained amongst them like hail. Our life was a constant hell, a perpetual damnation; but no one would have dared to raise a voice against the internal regulations of the prison, or against established usages. Accordingly, willingly or unwillingly, they had to be submitted to. Certain indomitable characters yielded with difficulty, but they yielded all the same. Prisoners who when at liberty had gone beyond all measure, who, urged by their over-excited vanity, had committed frightful crimes unconsciously, as if in a delirium, and had been the terror of entire towns, were put down in a very short time by the system of our prison. The "new man," when he began to reconnoitre, soon found that he could astonish no one, and insensibly he submitted, took the general tone, and assumed a sort of personal dignity which almost every convict maintained, just as if the denomination of convict had been a title of honour. Not the least sign of shame or of repentance, but a kind of external submission which seemed to have been reasoned out as the line of conduct to be pursued. "We are lost men," they said to themselves. "We were unable to live in liberty; we must now go to Green Street."[2] "You would not obey your father and mother; you will now obey thongs of leather." "The man who would not sow must now break stones." These things were said, and repeated in the way of morality, as sentences and proverbs, but without any one taking them seriously. They were but words in the air. There was not one man among them who admitted his iniquity. Let a stranger not a convict endeavour to reproach him with his crime, and the insults directed against him would be endless. And how refined are convicts in the matter of insults! They insult delicately, like artists; insult with the most delicate science. They endeavour not so much to offend by the expression as by the meaning, the spirit of an envenomed phrase. Their incessant quarrels developed greatly this special art. As they only worked under the threat of an immense stick, they were idle and depraved. Those who were not already corrupt when they arrived at the convict establishment, became perverted very soon. Brought together in spite of themselves, they were perfect strangers to one another. "The devil has worn out three pairs of sandals before he got us together," they would say. Intrigues, calumnies, scandal of all kinds, envy, and hatred reigned above everything else. In this life of sloth, no ordinary spiteful tongue could make head against these murderers, with insults constantly in their mouths. As I said before, there were found among them men of open character, resolute, intrepid, accustomed to self-command. These were held involuntarily in esteem. Although they were very jealous of their reputation, they endeavoured to annoy no one, and never insulted one another without a motive. Their conduct was on all points full of dignity. They were rational, and almost always obedient, not by principle, or from any respect for duty, but as if in virtue of a mutual convention between themselves and the administration--a convention of which the advantages were plain enough. The officials, moreover, behaved prudently towards them. I remember that one prisoner of the resolute and intrepid class, known to possess the instincts of a wild beast, was summoned one day to be whipped. It was during the summer, no work was being done. The Adjutant, the direct and immediate chief of the convict prison, was in the orderly-room, by the side of the principal entrance, ready to assist at the punishment. This Major was a fatal being for the prisoners, whom he had brought to such a state that they trembled before him. Severe to the point of insanity, "he threw himself upon them," to use their expression. But it was above all that his look, as penetrating as that of a lynx, was feared. It was impossible to conceal anything from him. He saw, so to say, without looking. On entering the prison, he knew at once what was being done. Accordingly, the convicts, one and all, called him the man with the eight eyes. His system was bad, for it had the effect of irritating men who were already irascible. But for the Commandant, a well-bred and reasonable man, who moderated the savage onslaughts of the Major, the latter would have caused sad misfortunes by his bad administration. I do not understand how he managed to retire from the service safe and sound. It is true that he left after being called before a court-martial. The prisoner turned pale when he was called; generally speaking, he lay down courageously, and without uttering a word, to receive the terrible rods, after which he got up and shook himself. He bore the misfortune calmly, philosophically, it is true, though he was never punished carelessly, nor without all sorts of precautions. But this time he considered himself innocent. He turned pale, and as he walked quietly towards the escort of soldiers he managed to conceal in his sleeve a shoemaker's awl. The prisoners were severely forbidden to carry sharp instruments about them. Examinations were frequently, minutely, and unexpectedly made, and all infractions of the rule were severely punished. But as it is difficult to take away from the criminal what he is determined to conceal, and as, moreover, sharp instruments are necessarily used in the prison, they were never destroyed. If the official succeeded in taking them away from the convicts, the latter procured new ones very soon. On the occasion in question, all the convicts had now thrown themselves against the palisade, with palpitating hearts, to look through the crevices. It was known that this time Petroff would not allow himself to be flogged, that the end of the Major had come. But at the critical moment the latter got into his carriage, and went away, leaving the direction of the punishment to a subaltern. "God has saved him!" said the convicts. As for Petroff, he underwent his punishment quietly. Once the Major had gone, his anger fell. The prisoner is submissive and obedient to a certain point, but there is a limit which must not be crossed. Nothing is more curious than these strange outbursts of disobedience and rage. Often a man who has supported for many years the most cruel punishment, will revolt for a trifle, for nothing at all. He might pass for a madman; that, in fact, is what is said of him. I have already said that during many years I never remarked the least sign of repentance, not even the slightest uneasiness with regard to the crime committed; and that most of the convicts considered neither honour nor conscience, holding that they had a right to act as they thought fit. Certainly vanity, evil examples, deceitfulness, and false shame were responsible for much. On the other hand, who can claim to have sounded the depths of these hearts, given over to perdition, and to have found them closed to all light? It would seem all the same that during so many years I ought to have been able to notice some indication, even the most fugitive, of some regret, some moral suffering. I positively saw nothing of the kind. With ready-made opinions one cannot judge of crime. Its philosophy is a little more complicated than people think. It is acknowledged that neither convict prisons, nor the hulks, nor any system of hard labour ever cured a criminal. These forms of chastisement only punish him and reassure society against the offences he might commit. Confinement, regulation, and excessive work have no effect but to develop with these men profound hatred, a thirst for forbidden enjoyment, and frightful recalcitrations. On the other hand I am convinced that the celebrated cellular system gives results which are specious and deceitful. It deprives a criminal of his force, of his energy, enervates his soul by weakening and frightening it, and at last exhibits a dried up mummy as a model of repentance and amendment. The criminal who has revolted against society, hates it, and considers himself in the right; society was wrong, not he. Has he not, moreover, undergone his punishment? Accordingly he is absolved, acquitted in his own eyes. In spite of different opinions, every one will acknowledge that there are crimes which everywhere, always, under no matter what legislation, are beyond discussion crimes, and should be regarded as such as long as man is man. It is only at the convict prison that I have heard related, with a childish, unrestrained laugh, the strangest, most atrocious offences. I shall never forget a certain parricide, formerly a nobleman and a public functionary. He had given great grief to his father--a true prodigal son. The old man endeavoured in vain to restrain him by remonstrance on the fatal slope down which he was sliding. As he was loaded with debts, and his father was suspected of having, besides an estate, a sum of ready money, he killed him in order to enter more quickly into his inheritance. This crime was not discovered until a month afterwards. During all this time the murderer, who meanwhile had informed the police of his father's disappearance, continued his debauches. At last, during his absence, the police discovered the old man's corpse in a drain. The gray head was severed from the trunk, but replaced in its original position. The body was entirely dressed. Beneath, as if by derision, the assassin had placed a cushion. The young man confessed nothing. He was degraded, deprived of his nobiliary privileges, and condemned to twenty years' hard labour. As long as I knew him I always found him to be careless of his position. He was the most light-minded, inconsiderate man that I ever met, although he was far from being a fool. I never observed in him any great tendency to cruelty. The other convicts despised him, not on account of his crime, of which there was never any question, but because he was without dignity. He sometimes spoke of his father. One day for instance, boasting of the hereditary good health of his family, he said: "My father, for example, until his death was never ill." Animal insensibility carried to such a point is most remarkable--it is, indeed, phenomenal. There must have been in this case an organic defect in the man, some physical and moral monstrosity unknown hitherto to science, and not simply crime. I naturally did not believe in so atrocious a crime; but people of the same town as himself, who knew all the details of his history, related it to me. The facts were so clear that it would have been madness not to accept them. The prisoners once heard him cry out during his sleep: "Hold him! hold him! Cut his head off, his head, his head!" Nearly all the convicts dreamed aloud, or were delirious in their sleep. Insults, words of slang, knives, hatchets, seemed constantly present in their dreams. "We are crushed!" they would say; "we are without entrails; that is why we shriek in the night." Hard labour in our fortress was not an occupation, but an obligation. The prisoners accomplished their task, they worked the number of hours fixed by the law, and then returned to the prison. They hated their liberty. If the convict did not do some work on his own account voluntarily, it would be impossible for him to support his confinement. How could these persons, all strongly constituted, who had lived sumptuously, and desired so to live again, who had been brought together against their will, after society had cast them up--how could they live in a normal and natural manner? Man cannot exist without work, without legal, natural property. Depart from these conditions, and he becomes perverted and changed into a wild beast. Accordingly, every convict, through natural requirements and by the instinct of self-preservation, had a trade--an occupation of some kind. The long days of summer were taken up almost entirely by our hard labour. The night was so short that we had only just time to sleep. It was not the same in winter. According to the regulations, the prisoners had to be shut up in the barracks at nightfall. What was to be done during these long, sad evenings but work? Consequently each barrack, though locked and bolted, assumed the appearance of a large workshop. The work was not, it is true, strictly forbidden, but it was forbidden to have tools, without which work is evidently impossible. But we laboured in secret, and the administration seemed to shut its eyes. Many prisoners arrived without knowing how to make use of their ten fingers; but they learnt a trade from some of their companions, and became excellent workmen. We had among us cobblers, bootmakers, tailors, masons, locksmiths, and gilders. A Jew named Esau Boumstein was at the same time a jeweller and a usurer. Every one worked, and thus gained a few pence--for many orders came from the town. Money is a tangible resonant liberty, inestimable for a man entirely deprived of true liberty. If he feels some money in his pocket, he consoles himself a little, even though he cannot spend it--but one can always and everywhere spend money, the more so as forbidden fruit is doubly sweet. One can often buy spirits in the convict prison. Although pipes are severely forbidden, every one smokes. Money and tobacco save the convicts from the scurvy, as work saves them from crime--for without work they would mutually have destroyed one another like spiders shut up in a close bottle. Work and money were all the same forbidden. Often during the night severe examinations were made, during which everything that was not legally authorised was confiscated. However successfully the little hoards had been concealed, they were sometimes discovered. That was one of the reasons why they were not kept very long. They were exchanged as soon as possible for drink, which explains how it happened that spirits penetrated into the convict prison. The delinquent was not only deprived of his hoard, but was also cruelly flogged. A short time after each examination the convicts procured again the objects which had been confiscated, and everything went on as before. The administration knew it; and although the condition of the convicts was a good deal like that of the inhabitants of Vesuvius, they never murmured at the punishment inflicted for these peccadilloes. Those who had no manual skill did business somehow or other. The modes of buying and selling were original enough. Things changed hands which no one expected a convict would ever have thought of selling or buying, or even of regarding as of any value whatever. The least rag had its value, and might be turned to account. In consequence, however, of the poverty of the convicts, money acquired in their eyes a superior value to that really belonging to it. Long and painful tasks, sometimes of a very complicated kind, brought back a few kopecks. Several of the prisoners lent by the week, and did good business that way. The prisoner who was ruined and insolvent carried to the usurer the few things belonging to him and pledged them for some halfpence, which were lent to him at a fabulous rate of interest. If he did not redeem them at the fixed time the usurer sold them pitilessly by auction, and without the least delay. Usury flourished so well in our convict prison that money was lent even on things belonging to the Government: linen, boots, etc.--things that were wanted at every moment. When the lender accepted such pledges the affair took an unexpected turn. The proprietor went, immediately after he had received his money, and told the under officer--chief superintendent of the convict prison--that objects belonging to the State were being concealed, on which everything was taken away from the usurer without even the formality of a report to the superior administration. But never was there any quarrel--and that is very curious indeed--between the usurer and the owner. The first gave up in silence, with a morose air, the things demanded from him, as if he had been waiting for the request. Sometimes, perhaps, he confessed to himself that, in the place of the borrower, he would not have acted differently. Accordingly, if he was insulted after this restitution, it was less from hatred than simply as a matter of conscience. The convicts robbed one another without shame. Each prisoner had his little box fitted with a padlock, in which he kept the things entrusted to him by the administration. Although these boxes were authorised, that did not prevent them from being broken into. The reader can easily imagine what clever thieves were found among us. A prisoner who was sincerely devoted to me--I say it without boasting--stole my Bible from me, the only book allowed in the convict prison. He told me of it the same day, not from repentance, but because he pitied me when he saw me looking for it everywhere. We had among our companions of the chain several convicts called "innkeepers," who sold spirits, and became comparatively rich by doing so. I shall speak of this further on, for the liquor traffic deserves special study. A great number of prisoners had been deported for smuggling, which explains how it was that drink was brought secretly into the convict prison, under so severe a surveillance as ours was. In passing it may be remarked that smuggling is an offence apart. Would it be believed that money, the solid profit from the affair, possesses often only secondary importance for the smuggler? It is all the same an authentic fact. He works by vocation. In his style he is a poet. He risks all he possesses, exposes himself to terrible dangers, intrigues, invents, gets out of a scrape, and brings everything to a happy end by a sort of inspiration. This passion is as violent as that of play. I knew a prisoner of colossal stature who was the mildest, the most peaceable, and most manageable man it was possible to see. We often asked one another how he had been deported. He had such a calm, sociable character, that during the whole time that he passed at the convict prison, he never quarrelled with any one. Born in Western Russia, where he lived on the frontier, he had been sent to hard labour for smuggling. Naturally, then, he could not resist his desire to smuggle spirits into the prison. How many times was he not punished for it, and heaven knows how much he feared the rods. This dangerous trade brought him in but slender profits. It was the speculator who got rich at his expense. Each time he was punished he wept like an old woman, and swore by all that was holy that he would never be caught at such things again. He kept his vow for an entire month, but he ended by yielding once more to his passion. Thanks to these amateurs of smuggling, spirits were always to be had in the convict prison. Another source of income which, without enriching the prisoners, was constantly and beneficently turned to account, was alms-giving. The upper classes of our Russian society do not know to what an extent merchants, shopkeepers, and our people generally, commiserate the "unfortunate!"[3] Alms were always forthcoming, and consisted generally of little white loaves, sometimes of money, but very rarely. Without alms, the existence of the convicts, and above all that of the accused, who are badly fed, would be too painful. These alms are shared equally between all the prisoners. If the gifts are not sufficient, the little loaves are divided into halves, and sometimes into six pieces, so that each convict may have his share. I remember the first alms, a small piece of money, that I received. A short time after my arrival, one morning, as I was coming back from work with a soldier escort, I met a mother and her daughter, a child of ten, as beautiful as an angel. I had already seen them once before. The mother was the widow of a poor soldier, who, while still young, had been sentenced by a court-martial, and had died in the infirmary of the convict prison while I was there. They wept hot tears when they came to bid him good-bye. On seeing me the little girl blushed, and murmured a few words into her mother's ear, who stopped, and took from a basket a kopeck which she gave to the little girl. The little girl ran after me. "Here, poor man," she said, "take this in the name of Christ." I took the money which she slipped into my hand. The little girl returned joyfully to her mother. I preserved that kopeck a considerable time. FOOTNOTES: [1] Goriantchikoff became himself a soldier in Siberia, when he had finished his term of imprisonment. [2] An allusion to the two rows of soldiers, armed with green rods, between which convicts condemned to corporal punishment had and still have to pass. But this punishment now exists only for convicts deprived of all their civil rights. This subject will be returned to further on. [3] Men condemned to hard labour, and exiles generally, are so called by the Russian peasantry. CHAPTER III. FIRST IMPRESSIONS During the first weeks, and naturally the early part of my imprisonment, made a deep impression on my imagination. The following years on the other hand are all mixed up together, and leave but a confused recollection. Certain epochs of this life are even effaced from my memory. I have kept one general impression of it, always the same; painful, monotonous, stifling. What I saw in experience during the first days of my imprisonment seems to me as if it had all taken place yesterday. Such was sure to be the case. I remember perfectly that in the first place this life astonished me by the very fact that it offered nothing particular, nothing extraordinary, or to express myself better, nothing unexpected. It was not until later on, when I had lived some time in the convict prison, that I understood all that was exceptional and unforeseen in such a life. I was astonished at the discovery. I will avow that this astonishment remained with me throughout my term of punishment. I could not decidedly reconcile myself to this existence. First of all, I experienced an invincible repugnance on arriving; but oddly enough the life seemed to me less painful than I had imagined on the journey. Indeed, prisoners, though embarrassed by their irons went to and fro in the prison freely enough. They insulted one another, sang, worked, smoked pipes, and drank spirits. There were not many drinkers all the same. There were also regular card parties during the night. The labour did not seem to me very trying; I fancied that it could not be the real "hard labour." I did not understand till long afterwards why this labour was really hard and excessive. It was less by reason of its difficulty, than because it was forced, imposed, obligatory; and it was only done through fear of the stick. The peasant works certainly harder than the convict, for, during the summer, he works night and day. But it is in his own interest that he fatigues himself. His aim is reasonable, so that he suffers less than the convict who performs hard labour from which he derives no profit. It once came into my head that if it were desired to reduce a man to nothing--to punish him atrociously, to crush him in such a manner that the most hardened murderer would tremble before such a punishment, and take fright beforehand--it would be necessary to give to his work a character of complete uselessness, even to absurdity. Hard labour, as it is now carried on, presents no interest to the convict; but it has its utility. The convict makes bricks, digs the earth, builds; and all his occupations have a meaning and an end. Sometimes, even the prisoner takes an interest in what he is doing. He then wishes to work more skilfully, more advantageously. But let him be constrained to pour water from one vessel into another, or to transport a quantity of earth from one place to another, in order to perform the contrary operation immediately afterwards, then I am persuaded that at the end of a few days the prisoner would strangle himself or commit a thousand crimes, punishable with death, rather than live in such an abject condition and endure such torments. It is evident that such punishment would be rather a torture, an atrocious vengeance, than a correction. It would be absurd, for it would have no natural end. I did not, however, arrive until the winter--in the month of December--and the labour was then unimportant in our fortress. I had no idea of the summer labour--five times as fatiguing. The prisoners, during the winter season, broke up on the Irtitch some old boats belonging to the Government, found occupation in the workshops, took away the snow blown by hurricanes against the buildings, or burned and pounded alabaster. As the day was very short, the work ceased at an early hour, and every one returned to the convict prison, where there was scarcely anything to do, except the supplementary work which the convicts did for themselves. Scarcely a third of the convicts worked seriously, the others idled their time and wandered about without aim in the barracks, scheming and insulting one another. Those who had a little money got drunk on spirits, or lost what they had saved at gambling. And all this from idleness, weariness, and want of something to do. I learned, moreover, to know one suffering which is perhaps the sharpest, the most painful that can be experienced in a house of detention apart from laws and liberty. I mean, "forced cohabitation." Cohabitation is more or less forced everywhere and always; but nowhere is it so horrible as in a prison. There are men there with whom no one would consent to live. I am certain that every convict, unconsciously perhaps, has suffered from this. The food of the prisoners seemed to me passable; some declared even that it was incomparably better than in any Russian prison. I cannot certify to this, for I was never in prison anywhere else. Many of us, besides, were allowed to procure whatever nourishment we wanted. As fresh meat cost only three kopecks a pound, those who always had money allowed themselves the luxury of eating it. The majority of the prisoners were contented with the regular ration. When they praised the diet of the convict prison, they were thinking only of the bread, which was distributed at the rate of so much per room, and not individually or by weight. This last condition would have frightened the convicts, for a third of them at least would have constantly suffered from hunger; while, with the system in vogue, every one was satisfied. Our bread was particularly nice, and was even renowned in the town. Its good quality was attributed to the excellent construction of the prison ovens. As for our cabbage-soup, it was cooked and thickened with flour. It had not an appetising appearance. On working days it was clear and thin; but what particularly disgusted me was the way it was served. The prisoners, however, paid no attention to that. During the three days that followed my arrival, I did not go to work. Some respite was always given to prisoners just arrived, in order to allow them to recover from their fatigue. The second day I had to go out of the convict prison in order to be ironed. My chain was not of the regulation pattern; it was composed of rings, which gave forth a clear sound, so I heard other convicts say. I had to wear them externally over my clothes, whereas my companions had chains formed, not of rings, but of four links, as thick as the finger, and fastened together by three links which were worn beneath the trousers. To the central ring was fastened a strip of leather, tied in its turn to a girdle fastened over the shirt. I can see again the first morning that I passed in the convict prison. The drum sounded in the orderly room, near the principal entrance. Ten minutes afterwards the under officer opened the barracks. The convicts woke up one after another and rose trembling with cold from their plank bedsteads, by the dull light of a tallow candle. Nearly all of them were morose; they yawned and stretched themselves. Their foreheads, marked by the iron, were contracted. Some made the sign of the Cross; others began to talk nonsense. The cold air from outside rushed in as soon as the door was opened. Then the prisoners hurried round the pails full of water, one after another, and took water in their mouths, and, letting it out into their hands, washed their faces. Those pails had been brought in the night before by a prisoner specially appointed, according to the rules, to clean the barracks. The convicts chose him themselves. He did not work with the others, for it was his business to examine the camp bedsteads and the floors, to fetch and carry water. This water served in the morning for the prisoners' ablutions, and the rest during the day for ordinary drinking. That very morning there were disputes on the subject of one of the pitchers. "What are you doing there with your marked forehead?" grumbled one of the prisoners, tall, dry, and sallow. He attracted attention by the strange protuberances with which his skull was covered. He pushed against another convict round and small, with a lively rubicund countenance. "Just wait." "What are you crying out about? You know that a fine must be paid when the others are kept waiting. Off with you. What a monument, my brethren!" "A little calf," he went on muttering. "See, the white bread of the prison has fattened him." "For what do you take yourself? A fine bird, indeed." "You are about right." "What bird do you mean?" "You don't require to be told." "How so?" "Find out." They devoured one another with their eyes. The little man, waiting for a reply, with clenched fists, was apparently ready to fight. I thought that an encounter would take place. It was all quite new to me; accordingly I watched the scene with curiosity. Later on I learnt that such quarrels were very innocent, that they served for entertainment. Like an amusing comedy, it scarcely ever ended in blows. This characteristic plainly informed me of the manners of the prisoners. The tall prisoner remained calm and majestic. He felt that some answer was expected from him, if he was not to be dishonoured, covered with ridicule. It was necessary for him to show that he was a wonderful bird, a personage. Accordingly, he cast a side look on his adversary, endeavouring, with inexpressible contempt, to irritate him by looking at him over his shoulders, up and down, as he would have done with an insect. At last the little fat man was so irritated that he would have thrown himself upon his adversary had not his companions surrounded the combatants to prevent a serious quarrel from taking place. "Fight with your fists, not with your tongues," cried a spectator from a corner of the room. "No, hold them," answered another, "they are going to fight. We are fine fellows, one against seven is our style." Fine fighting men! One was here for having sneaked a pound of bread, the other is a pot-stealer; he was whipped by the executioner for stealing a pot of curdled milk from an old woman. "Enough, keep quiet," cried a retired soldier, whose business it was to keep order in the barrack, and who slept in a corner of the room on a bedstead of his own. "Water, my children, water for Nevalid Petrovitch, water for our little brother, who has just woke up." "Your brother! Am I your brother? Did we ever drink a roublesworth of spirits together?" muttered the old soldier as he passed his arms through the sleeves of his great-coat. The roll was about to be called, for it was already late. The prisoners were hurrying towards the kitchen. They had to put on their pelisses, and were to receive in their bi-coloured caps the bread which one of the cooks--one of the bakers, that is to say--was distributing among them. These cooks, like those who did the household work, were chosen by the prisoners themselves. There were two for the kitchen, making four in all for the convict prison. They had at their disposal the only kitchen-knife authorised in the prison, which was used for cutting up the bread and meat. The prisoners arranged themselves in groups around the tables as best they could in caps and pelisses, with leather girdles round their waists, all ready to begin work. Some of the convicts had kvas before them, in which they steeped pieces of bread. The noise was insupportable. Many of the convicts, however, were talking together in corners with a steady, tranquil air. "Good-morning and good appetite, Father Antonitch," said a young prisoner, sitting down by the side of an old man, who had lost his teeth. "If you are not joking, well, good-morning," said the latter, without raising his eyes, and endeavouring to masticate a piece of bread with his toothless gums. "I declare I fancied you were dead, Antonitch." "Die first, I will follow you." I sat down beside them. On my right two convicts were conversing with an attempt at dignity. "I am not likely to be robbed," said one of them. "I am more afraid of stealing myself." "It would not be a good idea to rob me. The devil! I should pay the man out." "But what would you do, you are only a convict? We have no other name. You will see that she will rob you, the wretch, without even saying, 'Thank you.' The money I gave her was wasted. Just fancy, she was here a few days ago! Where were we to go? Shall I ask permission to go into the house of Theodore, the executioner? He has still his house in the suburb, the one he bought from that Solomon, you know, that scurvy Jew who hung himself not long since." "Yes, I know him, the one who sold liquor here three years ago, and who was called Grichka--the secret-drinking shop." "I know." "_All_ brag. You don't know. In the first place it is another drinking shop." "What do you mean, another? You don't know what you are talking about. I will bring you as many witnesses as you like." "Oh, you will bring them, will you? Who are you? Do you know to whom you are speaking?" "Yes, indeed." "I have often thrashed you, though I don't boast of it. Do not give yourself airs then." "You have thrashed me? The man who will thrash me is not yet born; and the man who did thrash me is six feet beneath the ground." "Plague-stricken rascal of Bender?" "May the Siberian leprosy devour you with ulcers!" "May a chopper cleave your dog of a head." Insults were falling about like rain. "Come, now, they are going to fight. When men have not been able to conduct themselves properly they should keep silent. They are too glad to come and eat the Government bread, the rascals!" They were soon separated. Let them fight with the tongue as much as they wish. That is permitted. It is a diversion at the service of every one; but no blows. It is, indeed, only in extraordinary cases that blows were exchanged. If a fight took place, information was given to the Major, who ordered an inquiry or directed one himself; and then woe to the convicts. Accordingly they set their faces against anything like a serious quarrel; besides, they insulted one another chiefly to pass the time, as an oratorical exercise. They get excited; the quarrel takes a furious, ferocious character; they seem about to slaughter one another. Nothing of the kind takes place. As soon as their anger has reached a certain pitch they separate. That astonished me much, and if I relate some of the conversations between the convicts, I do so with a purpose. Could I have imagined that people could have insulted one another for pleasure, that they could find enjoyment in it? We must not forget the gratification of vanity. A dialectician, who knows how to insult artistically, is respected. A little more, and he would be applauded like an actor. Already, the night before, I noticed some glances in my direction. On the other hand, several convicts hung around me as if they had suspected that I had brought money with me. They endeavoured to get into my good graces by teaching me how to carry my irons without being incommoded. They also gave me--of course in return for money--a box with a lock, in order to keep safe the things which had been entrusted to me by the administration, and the few shirts that I had been allowed to bring with me to the convict prison. Not later than next morning these same prisoners stole my box, and drank the money which they had taken out of it. One of them became afterwards a great friend of mine, though he robbed me whenever an opportunity offered itself. He was, all the same, vexed at what he had done. He committed these thefts almost unconsciously, as if in the way of a duty. Consequently I bore him no grudge. These convicts let me know that one could have tea, and that I should do well to get myself a teapot. They found me one, which I hired for a certain time. They also recommended me a cook, who, for thirty kopecks a month, would arrange the dishes I might desire, if it was my intention to buy provisions and take my meals apart. Of course they borrowed money from me. The day of my arrival they asked me for some at three different times. The noblemen degraded from their position, here incarcerated in the convict prison, were badly looked upon by their fellow prisoners; although they had lost all their rights like the other convicts, they were not looked upon as comrades. In this instinctive repugnance there was a sort of reason. To them we were always gentlemen, although they often laughed at our fall. "Ah! it's all over now. Mossieu's carriage formerly crushed the passers-by at Moscow. Now Mossieu picks hemp!" They knew our sufferings, though we hid them as much as possible. It was, above all, when we were all working together that we had most to endure, for our strength was not so great as theirs, and we were really not of much assistance to them. Nothing is more difficult than to gain the confidence of the common people; above all, such people as these! There were only a few of us who were of noble birth in the whole prison. First, there were five Poles--of whom further on I shall speak in detail--they were detested by the convicts more, perhaps, than the Russian nobles. The Poles--I speak only of the political convicts--always behaved to them with a constrained and offensive politeness, scarcely ever speaking to them, and making no endeavour to conceal the disgust which they experienced in such company. The convicts understood all this, and paid them back in their own coin. Two years passed before I could gain the good-will of my companions; but the greater part of them were attached to me, and declared that I was a good fellow. There were altogether--counting myself--five Russian nobles in the convict prison. I had heard of one of them even before my arrival as a vile and base creature, horribly corrupt, doing the work of spy and informer. Accordingly, from the very first day I refused to enter into relations with this man. The second was the parricide of whom I have spoken in these memoirs. The third was Akimitch. I have scarcely ever seen such an original; and I have still a lively recollection of him. Tall, thin, weak-minded, and terribly ignorant, he was as argumentative and as particular about details as a German. The convicts laughed at him; but they feared him, on account of his susceptible, excitable, and quarrelsome disposition. As soon as he arrived, he was on a footing of perfect equality with them. He insulted them and beat them. Phenomenally just, it was sufficient for him that there was injustice, to interfere in an affair which did not concern him. He was, moreover, exceedingly simple. When he quarrelled with the convicts, he reproached them with being thieves, and exhorted them in all sincerity to steal no more. He had served as a sub-lieutenant in the Caucasus. I made friends with him the first day, and he related to me his "affair." He had begun as a cadet in a Line regiment. After waiting some time to be appointed to his commission as sub-lieutenant, he at last received it, and was sent into the mountains to command a small fort. A small tributary prince in the neighbourhood set fire to the fort, and made a night attack, which had no success. Akimitch was very cunning, and pretended not to know that he was the author of the attack, which he attributed to some insurgents wandering about the mountains. After a month he invited the prince, in a friendly way, to come and see him. The prince arrived on horseback, without suspecting anything. Akimitch drew up his garrison in line of battle, and exposed to the soldiers the treason and villainy of his visitor. He reproached him with his conduct; proved to him that to set fire to the fort was a shameful crime; explained to him minutely the duties of a tributary prince; and then, by way of peroration to his harangue, had him shot. He at once informed his superior officers of this execution, with all the details necessary. Thereupon Akimitch was brought to trial. He appeared before a court-martial, and was condemned to death; but his sentence was commuted, and he was sent to Siberia as a convict of the second class--condemned, that is to say, to twelve years' hard labour and imprisonment in a fortress. He admitted willingly that he had acted illegally, and that the prince ought to have been tried in a civil court, and not by a court-martial. Nevertheless, he could not understand that his action was a crime. "He had burned my fort; what was I to do? Was I to thank him for it?" he answered to my objections. Although the convicts laughed at Akimitch, and pretended that he was a little mad, they esteemed him all the same by reason of his cleverness and his precision. He knew all possible trades, and could do whatever you wished. He was cobbler, bootmaker, painter, carver, gilder, and locksmith. He had acquired these talents at the convict prison, for it was sufficient for him to see an object, in order to imitate it. He sold in the town, or caused to be sold, baskets, lanterns, and toys. Thanks to his work, he had always some money, which he employed in buying shirts, pillows, and so on. He had himself made a mattress, and as he slept in the same room as myself he was very useful to me at the beginning of my imprisonment. Before leaving prison to go to work, the convicts were drawn up in two ranks before the orderly-room, surrounded by an escort of soldiers with loaded muskets. An officer of Engineers then arrived, with the superintendent of the works and a few soldiers, who watched the operations. The superintendent counted the convicts, and sent them in bands to the places where they were to be occupied. I went with some other prisoners to the workshop of the Engineers--a low brick house built in the midst of a large court-yard full of materials. There was a forge there, and carpenters', locksmiths', and painters' workshops. Akimitch was assigned to the last. He boiled the oil for the varnish, mixed the colours, and painted tables and other pieces of furniture in imitation walnut. While I was waiting to have additional irons put on, I communicated to him my first impressions. "Yes," he said, "they do not like nobles, above all those who have been condemned for political offences, and they take a pleasure in wounding their feelings. Is it not intelligible? We do not belong to them, we do not suit them. They have all been serfs or soldiers. Tell me what sympathy can they have for us. The life here is hard, but it is nothing in comparison with that of the disciplinary companies in Russia. There it is hell. The men who have been in them praise our convict prison. It is paradise compared to their purgatory. Not that the work is harder. It is said that with the convicts of the first class the administration--it is not exclusively military as it is here--acts quite differently from what it does towards us. They have their little houses there I have been told, for I have not seen for myself. They wear no uniform, their heads are not shaved, though, in my opinion, uniforms and shaved heads are not bad things; it is neater, and also it is more agreeable to the eye, only these men do not like it. Oh, what a Babel this place is! Soldiers, Circassians, old believers, peasants who have left their wives and families, Jews, Gypsies, people come from Heaven knows where, and all this variety of men are to live quietly together side by side, eat from the same dish, and sleep on the same planks. Not a moment's liberty, no enjoyment except in secret; they must hide their money in their boots; and then always the convict prison at every moment--perpetually convict prison! Involuntarily wild ideas come to one." As I already knew all this, I was above all anxious to question Akimitch in regard to our Major. He concealed nothing, and the impression which his story left upon me was far from being an agreeable one. I had to live for two years under the authority of this officer. All that Akimitch had told me about him was strictly true. He was a spiteful, ill-regulated man, terrible above all things, because he possessed almost absolute power over two hundred human beings. He looked upon the prisoners as his personal enemies--first, and very serious fault. His rare capacities, and, perhaps, even his good qualities, were perverted by his intemperance and his spitefulness. He sometimes fell like a bombshell into the barracks in the middle of the night. If he noticed a prisoner asleep on his back or his left side, he awoke him and said to him: "You must sleep as I ordered!" The convicts detested him and feared him like the plague. His repulsive, crimson countenance made every one tremble. We all knew that the Major was entirely in the hands of his servant Fedka, and that he had nearly gone mad when his dog "Treasure" fell ill. He preferred this dog to every other living creature. When Fedka told him that a convict, who had picked up some veterinary knowledge, made wonderful cures, he sent for him directly and said to him, "I entrust my dog to your care. If you cure 'Treasure' I will reward you royally." The man, a very intelligent Siberian peasant, was indeed a good veterinary surgeon, but he was above all a cunning peasant. He used to tell his comrades long after the affair had taken place the story of his visit to the Major. "I looked at 'Treasure,' he was lying down on a sofa with his head on a white cushion. I saw at once that he had inflammation, and that he wanted bleeding. I think I could have cured him, but I said to myself, 'What will happen if the dog dies? It will be my fault.' 'No, your noble highness,' I said to him, 'you have called me too late. If I had seen your dog yesterday or the day before, he would now be restored to health; but at the present moment I can do nothing. He will die.' And 'Treasure' died." I was told one day that a convict had tried to kill the Major. This prisoner had for several years been noticed for his submissive attitude and also his silence. He was regarded even as a madman. As he possessed some instruction he passed his nights reading the Bible. When everybody was asleep he rose, climbed up on to the stove, lit a church taper, opened his Gospel and began to read. He did this for an entire year. One fine day he left the ranks and declared that he would not go to work. He was reported to the Major, who flew into a rage, and hurried to the barracks. The convict rushed forward and hurled at him a brick, which he had procured beforehand; but it missed him. The prisoner was seized, tried, and whipped--it was a matter of a few moments--carried to the hospital, and died there three days afterwards. He declared during his last moments that he hated no one; but that he had wished to suffer. He belonged to no sect of fanatics. Afterwards, when people spoke of him in the barracks, it was always with respect. At last they put new irons on me. While they were being soldered a number of young women, selling little white loaves, came into the forge one after another. They were, for the most part, quite little girls who came to sell the loaves that their mothers had baked. As they got older they still continued to hang about us, but they no longer brought bread. There were always some of them about. There were also married women. Each roll cost two kopecks. Nearly all the prisoners used to have them. I noticed a prisoner who worked as a carpenter. He was already getting gray, but he had a ruddy, smiling complexion. He was joking with the vendors of rolls. Before they arrived he had tied a red handkerchief round his neck. A fat woman, much marked with the small-pox, put down her basket on the carpenter's table. They began to talk. "Why did you not come yesterday?" said the convict, with a self-satisfied smile. "I did come; but you had gone," replied the woman boldly. "Yes; they made us go away, otherwise we should have met. The day before yesterday they all came to see me." "Who came?" "Why, Mariashka, Khavroshka, Tchekunda, Dougrochva" (the woman of four kopecks). "What," I said to Akimitch, "is it possible that----?" "Yes; it happens sometimes," he replied, lowering his eyes, for he was a very proper man. Yes; it happened sometimes, but rarely, and with unheard of difficulties. The convicts preferred to spend their money in drink. It was very difficult to meet these women. It was necessary to come to an agreement about the place, and the time; to arrange a meeting, to find solitude, and, what was most difficult of all, to avoid the escorts--almost an impossibility--and to spend relatively prodigious sums. I have sometimes, however, witnessed love scenes. One day three of us were heating a brick-kiln on the banks of the Irtitch. The soldiers of the escort were good-natured fellows. Two "blowers" (they were so-called) soon appeared. "Where were you staying so long?" said a prisoner to them, who had evidently been expecting them. "Was it at the Zvierkoffs that you were detained?" "At the Zvierkoffs? It will be fine weather, and the fowls will have teeth, when I go to see them," replied one of the women. She was the dirtiest woman imaginable. She was called Tchekunda, and had arrived in company with her friend, the "four kopecks," who was beneath all description. "It's a long time since we have seen anything of you," says the gallant to her of the four kopecks; "you seem to have grown thinner." "Perhaps; formerly I was good-looking and plump, whereas now one might fancy I had swallowed eels." "And you still run after the soldiers, is that so?" "All calumny on the part of wicked people; and after all, if I was to be flogged to death for it, I like soldiers." "Never mind your soldiers, we're the people to love; we have money." Imagine this gallant with his shaved crown, with fetters on his ankles, dressed in a coat of two colours, and watched by an escort. As I was now returning to the prison, my irons had been put on. I wished Akimitch good-bye and went away, escorted by a soldier. Those who do task work return first, and, when I got back to the barracks, a good number of convicts were already there. As the kitchen could not have held the whole barrack-full at once, we did not all dine together. Those who came in first were first served. I tasted the cabbage soup, but, not being used to it, could not eat it, and I prepared myself some tea. I sat down at one end of the table, with a convict of noble birth like myself. The prisoners were going in and out. There was no want of room, for there were not many of them. Five of them sat down apart from the large table. The cook gave them each two ladles full of soup, and brought them a plate of fried fish. These men were having a holiday. They looked at us in a friendly manner. One of the Poles came in and took his seat by our side. "I was not with you, but I know that you are having a feast," exclaimed a tall convict who now came in. He was a man of about fifty years, thin and muscular. His face indicated cunning, and, at the same time, liveliness. His lower lip, fleshy and pendant, gave him a soft expression. "Well, have you slept well? Why don't you say how do you do? Well, now my friends of Kursk," he said, sitting down by the side of the feasters, "good appetite? Here's a new guest for you." "We are not from the province of Kursk." "Then my friends from Tambof, let me say?" "We are not from Tambof either. You have nothing to claim from us; if you want to enjoy yourself go to some rich peasant." "I have Maria Ikotishna [from "ikot," hiccough] in my belly, otherwise I should die of hunger. But where is your peasant to be found?" "Good heavens! we mean Gazin; go to him." "Gazin is on the drink to-day, he's devouring his capital." "He has at least twenty roubles," says another convict. "It is profitable to keep a drinking shop." "You won't have me? Then I must eat the Government food." "Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some." "Where do you see any noblemen? They're noblemen no longer. They're not a bit better than us," said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word. "I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have self-respect," said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a good-humoured air. "I will give you some if you like," I said. "Will you have some?" "What do you mean--will I have some? Who would not have some?" he said, coming towards the table. "Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect gentleman," continued the convict with the sombre air. "Does no one here drink tea?" I asked him; but he did not think me worthy of a reply. "White rolls, white rolls; who'll buy?" A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that he counted for his dinner. "White rolls, white rolls," he cried, as he entered the kitchen, "white Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money, lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has had a mother." This appeal to filial love made every one laugh, and several of his white rolls were purchased. "Well," he said, "Gazin has drunk in such a style, it is quite a sin. He has chosen a nice moment too. If the man with the eight eyes should arrive--we shall hide him." "Is he very drunk?" "Yes, and ill-tempered too--unmanageable." "There will be some fighting, then?" "Whom are they speaking of?" I said to the Pole, my neighbour. "Of Gazin. He is a prisoner who sells spirits. When he has gained a little money by his trade, he drinks it to the last kopeck; a cruel, malicious animal when he has been drinking. When sober, he is quiet enough, but when he is in drink he shows himself in his true character. He attacks people with the knife until it is taken from him." "How do they manage that?" "Ten men throw themselves upon him and beat him like a sack without mercy until he loses consciousness. When he is half dead with the beating, they lay him down on his plank bedstead, and cover him over with his pelisse." "But they might kill him." "Any one else would die of it, but not he. He is excessively robust; he is the strongest of all the convicts. His constitution is so solid, that the day after one of these punishments he gets up perfectly sound." "Tell me, please," I continued, speaking to the Pole, "why these people keep their food to themselves, and at the same time seem to envy me my tea." "Your tea has nothing to do with it. They are envious of you. Are you not a gentleman? You in no way resemble them. They would be glad to pick a quarrel with you in order to humiliate you. You don't know what annoyances you will have to undergo. It is martyrdom for men like us to be here. Our life is doubly painful, and great strength of character can alone accustom one to it. You will be vexed and tormented in all sorts of ways on account of your food and your tea. Although the number of men who buy their own food and drink tea daily is large enough, they have a right to do so, you have not." He got up and left the table a few minutes later. His predictions were already being fulfilled. CHAPTER IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (_continued_). Hardly had M. --cki--the Pole to whom I had been speaking--gone out when Gazin, completely drunk, threw himself all in a heap into the kitchen. To see a convict drunk in the middle of the day, when every one was about to be sent out to work--given the well-known severity of the Major, who at any moment might come to the barracks, the watchfulness of the under officer who never left the prison, the presence of the old soldiers and the sentinels--all this quite upset the ideas I had formed of our prison; and a long time passed before I was able to understand and explain to myself the effects, which in the first instance were enigmatic indeed. I have already said that all the convicts had a private occupation, and that this occupation was for them a natural and imperious one. They are passionately fond of money, and think more of it than of anything else--almost as much as of liberty. The convict is half-consoled if he can ring a few kopecks in his pocket. On the contrary, he is sad, restless, and despondent if he has no money. He is ready then to commit no matter what crime in order to get some. Nevertheless, in spite of the importance it possesses for the convicts, money does not remain long in their pockets. It is difficult to keep it. Sometimes it is confiscated, sometimes stolen. When the Major, in a sudden perquisition, discovered a small sum amassed with great trouble, he confiscated it. It may be that he laid it out in improving the food of the prisoners, for all the money taken from them went into his hands. But generally speaking it was stolen. A means of preserving it was, however, discovered. An old man from Starodoub, one of the "old believers," took upon himself to conceal the convicts' savings. I cannot resist my desire to say some words about this man, although it takes me away from my story. He was about sixty years old, thin, and getting very gray. He excited my curiosity the first time I saw him, for he was not like any of the others; his look was so tranquil and mild, and I always saw with pleasure his clear and limpid eyes, surrounded by a number of little wrinkles. I often talked with him, and rarely have I met with so kind, so benevolent a being. He had been consigned to hard labour for a serious crime. A certain number of the "old believers" at Starodoub had been converted to the orthodox religion. The Government had done everything to encourage them, and, at the same time, to convert the other dissenters. The old man and some other fanatics had resolved to "defend the faith." When the orthodox church was being constructed in their town they set fire to the building. This offence had brought upon its author the sentence of deportation. This well-to-do shopkeeper--he was in trade--had left a wife and family whom he loved, and had gone off courageously into exile, believing in his blindness that he was "suffering for the faith." When one had lived some time by the side of this kind old man, one could not help asking the question, how could he have rebelled? I spoke to him several times about his faith. He gave up none of his convictions, but in his answers I never noticed the slightest hatred; and yet he had destroyed a church, and was far from denying it. In his view, the offence he had committed and his martyrdom were things to be proud of. There were other "old believers" among the convicts--Siberians for the most part--men of well-developed intelligence, and as cunning as all peasants. Dialecticians in their way, they followed blindly their law, and delighted in discussing it. But they had great faults; they were haughty, proud, and very intolerant. The old man in no way resembled them. With full more belief in religious exposition than others of the same faith, he avoided all controversy. As he was of a gay and expansive disposition he often laughed--not with the coarse cynical laugh of the other convicts, but with a laugh of clearness and simplicity, in which there was something of the child, and which harmonised perfectly with his gray head. I may perhaps be in error, but it seems to me that a man may be known by his laugh alone. If the laugh of a man you are acquainted with inspires you with sympathy, be assured that he is an honest man. The old man had acquired the respect of all the prisoners without exception; but he was not proud of it. The convicts called him grandfather, and he took no offence. I then understood what an influence he must have exercised on his co-religionists. In spite of the firmness with which he supported his prison life, one felt that he was tormented by a profound, incurable melancholy. I slept in the same barrack with him. One night, towards three o'clock in the morning, I woke up; I heard a slow, stifling sob. The old man was sitting upon the stove--the same place where the convict who had wished to kill the Major was in the habit of praying--and was reading from his manuscript prayer-book. As he wept I heard him repeating: "Lord, do not forsake me. Master, strengthen me. My poor little children, my dear little children, we shall never see one another again." I cannot say how much this moved me. We used to give our money then to this old man. Heaven knows how the idea got abroad in our barrack that he could not be robbed. It was well known that he hid somewhere the savings deposited with him, but no one had been able to discover his secret. He revealed it to us; to the Poles, and myself. One of the stakes of the palisade bore a branch which apparently belonged to it, but it could be taken away, and then replaced in the stake. When the branch was removed a hole could be seen. This was the hiding-place in question. I now resume the thread of my narrative. Why does not the convict save up his money? Not only is it difficult for him to keep it, but the prison life, moreover, is so sad that the convict by his very nature thirsts for freedom of action. By his position in society he is so irregular a being that the idea of swallowing up his capital in orgies, of intoxicating himself with revelry, seems to him quite natural if only he can procure himself one moment's forgetfulness. It was strange to see certain individuals bent over their labour only with the object of spending in one day all their gains, even to the last kopeck. Then they would go to work again until a new debauch, looked forward to months beforehand. Certain convicts were fond of new clothes, more or less singular in style, such as fancy trousers and waistcoats; but it was above all for the coloured shirts that the convicts had a pronounced taste; also for belts with metal clasps. On holidays the dandies of the prison put on their Sunday best. They were worth seeing as they strutted about their part of the barracks. The pleasure of feeling themselves well dressed amounted with them to childishness; indeed, in many things convicts are only children. Their fine clothes disappeared very soon, often the evening of the very day on which they had been bought. Their owners pledged them or sold them again for a trifle. The feasts were generally held at fixed times. They coincided with religious festivals, or with the name's day of the drunken convict. On getting up in the morning he would place a wax taper before the holy image, then he said his prayer, dressed, and ordered his dinner. He had bought beforehand meat, fish, and little patties; then he gorged like an ox, almost always alone. It was very rare to see a convict invite another convict to share his repast. At dinner the vodka was produced. The convict would suck it up like the sole of a boot, and then walk through the barracks swaggering and tottering. It was his desire to show all his companions that he was drunk, that he was carrying on, and thus obtain their particular esteem. The Russian people feel always a certain sympathy for a drunken man; among us it amounted really to esteem. In the convict prison intoxication was a sort of aristocratic distinction. As soon as he felt himself in spirits the convict ordered a musician. We had among us a little fellow--a deserter from the army--very ugly, but who was the happy possessor of a violin on which he could play. As he had no trade he was always ready to follow the festive convict from barrack to barrack grinding him out dance tunes with all his strength. His countenance often expressed the fatigue and disgust which his music--always the same--caused him; but when the prisoner called out to him, "Go on playing, are you not paid for it?" he attacked his violin more violently than ever. These drunkards felt sure that they would be taken care of, and in case of the Major arriving would be concealed from his watchful eyes. This service we rendered in the most disinterested spirit. On their side the under officer, and the old soldiers who remained in the prison to keep order, were perfectly reassured. The drunkard would cause no disturbance. At the least scare of revolt or riot he would have been quieted and then bound. Accordingly the inferior officers closed their eyes; they knew that if vodka was forbidden all would go wrong. How was this vodka procured? It was bought in the convict prison itself from the drink-sellers, as they were called, who followed this trade--a very lucrative one--although the tipplers were not very numerous, for revelry was expensive, especially when it is considered how hardly money was earned. The drink business was begun, continued, and ended in rather an original manner. The prisoner who knew no trade, would not work, and who, nevertheless, desired to get speedily rich, made up his mind, when he possessed a little money, to buy and sell vodka. The enterprise was risky, it required great daring, for the speculator hazarded his skin as well as liquor. But the drink-seller hesitated before no obstacles. At the outset he brought the vodka himself to the prison and got rid of it on the most advantageous terms. He repeated this operation a second and a third time. If he had not been discovered by the officials, he now possessed a sum which enabled him to extend his business. He became a capitalist with agents and assistants, he risked much less and gained much more. Then his assistants incurred risk in place of him. Prisons are always abundantly inhabited by ruined men without the habit of work, but endowed with skill and daring; their only capital is their back. They often decide to put it into circulation, and propose to the drink-seller to introduce vodka into the barracks. There is always in the town a soldier, a shopkeeper, or some loose woman who, for a stipulated sum--rather a small one--buys vodka with the drink-seller's money, hides it in a place known to the convict-smuggler, near the workshop where he is employed. The person who supplies the vodka, tastes the precious liquid almost always as he is carrying it to the hiding-place, and replaces relentlessly what he has drunk by pure water. The purchaser may take it or leave it, but he cannot give himself airs. He thinks himself very lucky that his money has not been stolen from him, and that he has received some kind of vodka in exchange. The man who is to take it into the prison--to whom the drink-seller has indicated the hiding-place--goes to the supplier with bullock's intestines which after being washed, have been filled with water, and which thus preserves their softness and suppleness. When the intestines have been filled with vodka, the smuggler rolls them round his body. Now, all the cunning, the adroitness of this daring convict is shown. The man's honour is at stake. It is necessary for him to take in the escort and the man on guard; and he will take them in. If the carrier is artful, the soldier of the escort--sometimes a recruit--does not notice anything particular; for the prisoner has studied him thoroughly, besides which he has artfully combined the hour and the place of meeting. If the convict--a bricklayer for example--climbs up on the wall that he is building, the escort will certainly not climb up after him to watch his movements. Who then, will see what he is about? On getting near the prison, he gets ready a piece of fifteen or twenty kopecks, and waits at the gate for the corporal on guard. The corporal examines, feels, and searches each convict on his return to the barracks, and then opens the gate to him. The carrier of the vodka hopes that he will be ashamed to examine him too much in detail; but if the corporal is a cunning fellow, that is just what he will do; and in that case he finds the contraband vodka. The convict has now only one chance of salvation. He slips into the hand of the under officer the piece of money he holds in readiness, and often, thanks to this manoeuvre, the vodka arrives safely in the hands of the drink-seller. But sometimes the trick does not succeed, and it is then that the sole capital of the smuggler enters really into circulation. A report is made to the Major, who sentences the unhappy culprit to a thorough flogging. As for the vodka, it is confiscated. The smuggler undergoes his punishment without betraying the speculator, not because such a denunciation would disgrace him, but because it would bring him nothing. He would be flogged all the same, the only consolation he could have would be that the drink-seller would share his punishment; but as he needs him, he does not denounce him, although having allowed himself to be surprised, he will receive no payment from him. Denunciation, however, flourishes in the convict prison. Far from hating spies or keeping apart from them, the prisoners often make friends of them. If any one had taken it into his head to prove to the convicts all the baseness of mutual denunciation, no one in the prison would have understood. The former nobleman of whom I have already spoken, that cowardly and violent creature with whom I had already broken off all relations immediately after my arrival in the fortress, was the friend of Fedka, the Major's body-servant. He used to tell him everything that took place in the convict prison, and this was naturally carried back to the servant's master. Every one knew it, but no one had the idea of showing any ill-will against the man, or of reproaching him with his conduct. When the vodka arrived without accident at the prison, the speculator paid the smuggler and made up his accounts. His merchandise had already cost him sufficiently dear; and that the profit might be greater, he diluted it by adding fifty per cent. of pure water. He was ready, and had only to wait for customers. The first holiday, perhaps even on a week-day, a convict would turn up. He had been working like a negro for many months in order to save up, kopeck by kopeck, a small sum which he was resolved to spend all at once. These days of rejoicing had been looked forward to long beforehand. He had dreamt of them during the endless winter nights, during his hardest labour, and the perspective had supported him under his severest trials. The dawn of this day so impatiently awaited, has just appeared. He has some money in his pocket. It has been neither stolen from him nor confiscated. He is free to spend it. Accordingly he takes his savings to the drink-seller, who, to begin with, gives vodka which is almost pure--it has been only twice baptized--but gradually, as the bottle gets more and more empty, he fills it up with water. Accordingly the convict pays for his vodka five or six times as much as he would in a tavern. It may be imagined how many glasses, and, above all, what sums of money are required before the convict is drunk. However, as he has lost the habit of drinking, the little alcohol which remains in the liquid intoxicates him rapidly enough; he goes on drinking until there is nothing left; he pledges or sells all his new clothes--for the drink-seller is at the same time a pawnbroker. As his personal garments are not very numerous he next pledges the clothes supplied to him by the Government. When the drink has made away with his last shirt, his last rag, he lies down and wakes up the next morning with a bad headache. In vain he begs the drink-seller to give him credit for a drop of vodka in order to remove his depression; he experiences a direct refusal. That very day he sets to work again. For several months together, he will weary himself out while looking forward to such a debauch as the one which has now disappeared in the past. Little by little he regains courage while waiting for such another day, still far off, but which ultimately will arrive. As for the drink-seller, if he has gained a large sum--some dozen of roubles--he procures some more vodka, but this time he does not baptize it, because he intends it for himself. Enough of trade! it is time for him to amuse himself. Accordingly he eats, drinks, pays for a little music--his means allow him to grease the palm of the inferior officers in the convict prison. This festival lasts sometimes for several days. When his stock of vodka is exhausted, he goes and drinks with the other drink-sellers who are waiting for him; he then drinks up his last kopeck. However careful the convicts may be in watching over their companions in debauchery, it sometimes happens that the Major or the officer on guard notices what is going on. The drunkard is then dragged to the orderly-room, his money is confiscated if he has any left, and he is flogged. The convict shakes himself like a beaten dog, returns to barracks, and, after a few days, resumes his trade as drink-seller. It sometimes happens that among the convicts there are admirers of the fair sex. For a sufficiently large sum of money they succeed, accompanied by a soldier whom they have corrupted, in getting secretly out of the fortress into a suburb instead of going to work. There in an apparently quiet house a banquet is held at which large sums of money are spent. The convicts' money is not to be despised, accordingly the soldiers will sometimes arrange these temporary escapes beforehand, sure as they are of being generously recompensed. Generally speaking these soldiers are themselves candidates for the convict prison. The escapades are scarcely ever discovered. I must add that they are very rare, for they are very expensive, and the admirers of the fair sex are obliged to have recourse to other less costly means. At the beginning of my stay, a young convict with very regular features excited my curiosity; his name was Sirotkin, he was in many respects an enigmatic being. His face had struck me, he was not more than twenty-three years of age, and he belonged to the special section; that is to say, he was condemned to hard labour in perpetuity. He accordingly was to be looked upon as one of the most dangerous of military criminals. Mild and tranquil, he spoke little and rarely laughed; his blue eyes, his clear complexion, his fair hair gave him a soft expression, which even his shaven crown did not destroy. Although he had no trade, he managed to get himself money from time to time. He was remarkably lazy, and always dressed like a sloven; but if any one was generous enough to present him with a red shirt, he was beside himself with joy at having a new garment, and he exhibited it everywhere. Sirotkin neither drank nor played, and he scarcely ever quarrelled with the other convicts. He walked about with his hands in his pockets peacefully, and with a pensive air. What he was thinking of I cannot say. When any one called to him, to ask him a question, he replied with deference, precisely, without chattering like the others. He had in his eyes the expression of a child of ten; when he had money he bought nothing of what the others looked upon as indispensable. His vest might be torn, he did not get it mended, any more than he bought himself new boots. What particularly pleased him were the little white rolls and gingerbread, which he would eat with the satisfaction of a child of seven. When he was not at work he wandered about the barracks; when every one else was occupied, he remained with his arms by his sides; if any one joked with him, or laughed at him--which happened often enough--he turned on his heel without speaking and went elsewhere. If the pleasantry was too strong he blushed. I often asked myself for what crime he could have been condemned to hard labour. One day when I was ill, and lying in the hospital, Sirotkin was also there, stretched out on a bedstead not far from me. I entered into conversation with him; he became animated, and told me freely how he had been taken for a soldier, how his mother had followed him in tears, and what treatment he had endured in military service. He added that he had never been able to accustom himself to this life; every one was severe and angry with him about nothing, his officers were always against him. "But why did they send you here?--and into the special section above all! Ah, Sirotkin!" "Yes, Alexander Petrovitch, although I was only one year with the battalion, I was sent here for killing my captain, Gregory Petrovitch." "I heard about that, but I did not believe it; how was it that you killed him?" "All that was told you was true; my life was insupportable." "But the other recruits supported it well enough. It is very hard at the beginning, but men get accustomed to it and end by becoming excellent soldiers. Your mother must have pampered you and spoiled you. I am sure that she fed you with gingerbread and with sweet milk until you were eighteen." "My mother, it is true, was very fond of me. When I left her she took to her bed and remained there. How painful to me everything in my military life was; after that all went wrong. I was perpetually being punished, and why? I obeyed every one, I was exact, careful. I did not drink, I borrowed from no one--it's all up with a man when he begins to borrow--and yet every one around me was harsh and cruel. I sometimes hid myself in a corner and did nothing but sob. One day, or rather one night, I was on guard. It was autumn: there was a strong wind, and it was so dark that you could not see a speck, and I was sad, so sad! I took the bayonet from the end of my musket and placed it by my side. Then I put the barrel to my breast and with my big toe--I had taken my boot off--pressed the trigger. It missed fire. I looked at my musket and loaded it with a charge of fresh powder. Then I broke off the corner of my flint, and once more I placed the muzzle against my breast. Again there was a misfire. What was I to do? I said to myself. I put my boot on, I fastened my bayonet to the barrel, and walked up and down with my musket on my shoulder. Let them do what they like, I said to myself; but I will not be a soldier any longer. Half-an-hour afterwards the captain arrived, making his rounds. He came straight upon me. 'Is that the way you carry yourself when you are on guard?' I seized my musket, and stuck the bayonet into his body. Then I had to walk forty-six versts. That is how I came to be in the special section." He was telling no falsehood, yet I did not understand how they could have sent him there; such crimes deserve a much less severe punishment. Sirotkin was the only one of the convicts who was really handsome. As for his companions of the special section--to the number of fifteen--they were frightful to behold with their hideous, disgusting physiognomies. Gray heads were plentiful among them. I shall speak of these men further on. Sirotkin was often on good terms with Gazin, the drink-seller, of whom I have already spoken at the beginning of this chapter. This Gazin was a terrible being; the impression that he produced on every one was confusing or appalling. It seemed to me that a more ferocious, a more monstrous creature could not exist. Yet I have seen at Tobolsk, Kameneff, the brigand, celebrated for his crimes. Later, I saw Sokoloff, the escaped convict, formerly a deserter, who was a ferocious creature; but neither of them inspired me with so much disgust as Gazin. I often fancied that I had before my eyes an enormous, gigantic spider of the size of a man. He was a Tartar, and there was no convict so strong as he was. It was less by his great height and his herculean construction, than by his enormous and deformed head, that he inspired terror. The strangest reports were current about him. Some said that he had been a soldier, others that he had escaped from Nertchinsk, and that he had been exiled several times to Siberia, but had always succeeded in getting away. Landing at last in our convict prison, he belonged there to the special section. It appeared that he had taken a pleasure in killing little children when he had attracted them to some deserted place; then he frightened them, tortured them, and after having fully enjoyed the terror and the convulsions of the poor little things, he killed them resolutely and with delight. These horrors had perhaps been imagined by reason of the painful impression that the monster produced upon us; but they seemed probable, and harmonised with his physiognomy. Nevertheless, when Gazin was not drunk, he conducted himself well enough. He was always quiet, never quarrelled, avoided all disputes as if from contempt for his companions, just as though he had entertained a high opinion of himself. He spoke very little, all his movements were measured, calm, resolute. His look was not without intelligence, but its expression was cruel and derisive like his smile. Of all the convicts who sold vodka, he was the richest. Twice a year he got completely drunk, and it was then that all his brutal ferocity exhibited itself. Little by little he got excited, and began to tease the prisoners with venomous satire prepared long beforehand. Finally when he was quite drunk, he had attacks of furious rage, and, seizing a knife, would rush upon his companions. The convicts who knew his herculean vigour, avoided him and protected themselves against him, for he would throw himself on the first person he met. A means of disarming him had been discovered. Some dozen prisoners would rush suddenly upon Gazin, and give him violent blows in the pit of the stomach, in the belly, and generally beneath the region of the heart, until he lost consciousness. Any one else would have died under such treatment, but Gazin soon got well. When he had been well beaten they would wrap him up in his pelisse, and throw him upon his plank bedstead, leaving him to digest his drink. The next day he woke up almost well, and went to his work silent and sombre. Every time that Gazin got drunk, all the prisoners knew how his day would finish. He knew also, but he drank all the same. Several years passed in this way. Then it was noticed that Gazin had lost his energy, and that he was beginning to get weak. He did nothing but groan, complaining of all kinds of illnesses. His visits to the hospital became more and more frequent. "He is giving in," said the prisoners. At one time Gazin had gone into the kitchen followed by the little fellow who scraped the violin, and whom the convicts in their festivities used to hire to play to them. He stopped in the middle of the hall silently examining his companions one after another. No one breathed a word. When he saw me with my companions, he looked at us in his malicious, jeering style, and smiled horribly with the air of a man who was satisfied with a good joke that he had just thought of. He approached our table, tottering. "Might I ask," he said, "where you get the money which allows you to drink tea?" I exchanged a look with my neighbour. I understood that the best thing for us was to be silent, and not to answer. The least contradiction would have put Gazin in a passion. "You must have money," he continued, "you must have a good deal of money to drink tea; but, tell me, are you sent to hard labour to drink tea? I say, did you come here for that purpose? Please answer, I should like to know." Seeing that we were resolved on silence, and that we had determined not to pay any attention to him, he ran towards us, livid and trembling with rage. At two steps' distance, he saw a heavy box, which served to hold the bread given for the dinner and supper of the convicts. Its contents were sufficient for the meal of half the prisoners. At this moment it was empty. He seized it with both hands and brandished it above our heads. Although murder, or attempted, was an inexhaustible source of trouble for the convicts--examinations, counter-examinations, and inquiries without end would be the natural consequence--and though quarrels were generally cut short, when they did not lead to such serious results, yet every one remained silent and waited. Not one word in our favour, not one cry against Gazin. The hatred of all the prisoners for all who were of gentle birth was so great that every one of them was evidently pleased to see that we were in danger. But a fortunate incident terminated this scene, which must have become tragic. Gazin was about to let fly the enormous box, which he was turning and twisting above his head, when a convict ran in from the barracks, and cried out: "Gazin, they have stolen your vodka!" The horrible brigand let fall the box with a frightful oath, and ran out of the kitchen. "Well, God has saved them," said the prisoners among themselves, repeating the words several times. I never knew whether his vodka had been stolen, or whether it was only a stratagem invented to save us. That same evening, before the closing of the barracks, when it was already dark, I walked to the side of the palisade. A heavy feeling of sadness weighed upon my soul. During all the time that I passed in the convict prison I never felt myself so miserable as on that evening, though the first day is always the hardest, whether at hard labour or in the prison. One thought in particular had left me no respite since my deportation--a question insoluble then and insoluble now. I reflected on the inequality of the punishments inflicted for the same crimes. Often, indeed, one crime cannot be compared even approximately to another. Two murderers kill a man under circumstances which in each case are minutely examined and weighed. They each receive the same punishment; and yet by what an abyss are their two actions separated! One has committed a murder for a trifle--for an onion. He has killed on the high-road a peasant who was passing, and found on him an onion, and nothing else. "Well, I was sent to hard labour for a peasant who had nothing but an onion!" "Fool that you are! an onion is worth a kopeck. If you had killed a hundred peasants you would have had a hundred kopecks, or one rouble." The above is a prison joke. Another criminal has killed a debauchee who was oppressing or dishonouring his wife, his sister, or his daughter. A third, a vagabond, half dead with hunger, pursued by a whole band of police, was defending his liberty, his life. He is to be regarded as on an equality with the brigand who assassinates children for his amusement, for the pleasure of feeling their warm blood flow over his hands, of seeing them shudder in a last bird-like palpitation beneath the knife which tears their flesh! They will all alike be sent to hard labour; though the sentence will perhaps not be for the same number of years. But the variations in the punishment are not very numerous, whereas different kinds of crimes may be reckoned by thousands. As many characters, so many crimes. Let us admit that it is impossible to get rid of this first inequality in punishment, that the problem is insoluble, and that in connection with penal matters it is the squaring of the circle. Let all that be admitted; but even if this inequality cannot be avoided, there is another thing to be thought of--the consequences of the punishment. Here is a man who is wasting away like a candle; there is another one, on the contrary, who had no idea before going into exile that there could be such a gay, such an idle life, where he would find a circle of such agreeable friends. Individuals of this latter class are to be found in the convict prison. Now take a man of heart, of cultivated mind, and of delicate conscience. What he feels kills him more certainly than the material punishment. The judgment which he himself pronounces on his crime is more pitiless than that of the most severe tribunal, the most Draconian law. He lives by the side of another convict, who has not once reflected on the murder he is expiating, during the whole time of his sojourn in the convict prison. He, perhaps, even considers himself innocent. Are there not, also, poor devils who commit crimes in order to be sent to hard labour, and thus to escape the liberty which is much more painful than confinement? A man's life is miserable, he has never, perhaps, been able to satisfy his hunger. He is worked to death in order to enrich his master. In the convict prison his work will be less severe, less crushing. He will eat as much as he wants, better than he could ever have hoped to eat, had he remained free. On holidays he will have meat, and fine people will give him alms, and his evening's work will bring him in some money. And the society one meets with in the convict prison, is that to be counted for nothing? The convicts are clever, wide-awake people, who are up to everything. The new arrival can scarcely conceal the admiration he feels for his companions in labour. He has seen nothing like it before, and he will consider himself in the best company possible. Is it possible that men so differently situated can feel in an equal degree the punishment inflicted? But why think about questions that are insoluble? The drum beats, let us go back to barracks. CHAPTER V. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (_continued_) We were between walls once more. The doors of the barracks were locked, each with a particular padlock, and the prisoners remained shut up till the next morning. The verification was made by a non-commissioned officer accompanied by two soldiers. When by chance an officer was present, the convicts were drawn up in the court-yard, but generally speaking they were identified in the buildings. As the soldiers often made mistakes, they went out and came back in order to count us again and again, until their reckoning was satisfactory, then the barracks were closed. Each one contained about thirty prisoners, and we were very closely packed in our camp bedsteads. As it was too soon to go to sleep, the convicts occupied themselves with work. Besides the old soldier of whom I have spoken, who slept in our dormitory, and represented there the administration of the prison, there was in our barrack another old soldier wearing a medal as rewarded for good conduct. It happened often enough, however, that the good-conduct men themselves committed offences for which they were sentenced to be whipped. They then lost their rank, and were immediately replaced by comrades whose conduct was considered satisfactory. Our good-conduct man was no other than Akim Akimitch. To my great astonishment, he was very rough with the prisoners, but they only replied by jokes. The other old soldier, more prudent, interfered with no one, and if he opened his mouth, it was only as a matter of form, as an affair of duty. For the most part he remained silent, seated on his little bedstead, occupied in mending his own boots. That day I could not help making to myself an observation, the accuracy of which became afterwards apparent: that all those who are not convicts and who have to deal with them, whoever they may be--beginning with the soldiers of the escort and the sentinels--look upon the convicts in a false and exaggerated light, expecting that for a yes or a no, these men will throw themselves upon them knife in hand. The prisoners, perfectly conscious of the fear they inspire, show a certain arrogance. Accordingly, the best prison director is the one who experiences no emotion in their presence. In spite of the airs they give themselves, the convicts prefer that confidence should be placed in them. By such means, indeed, they may be conciliated. I have more than once had occasion to notice their astonishment at an official entering their prison without an escort, and certainly their astonishment was not unflattering. A visitor who is intrepid imposes respect. If anything unfortunate happens, it will not be in his presence. The terror inspired by the convicts is general, and yet I saw no foundation for it. Is it the appearance of the prisoner, his brigand-like look, that causes a certain repugnance? Is it not rather the feeling that invades you directly you enter the prison, that in spite of all efforts, all precautions, it is impossible to turn a living man into a corpse, to stifle his feelings, his thirst for vengeance and for life, his passions, and his imperious desire to satisfy them? However that may be, I declare that there is no reason for fearing the convicts. A man does not throw himself so quickly nor so easily upon his fellow-man, knife in hand. Few accidents happen; sometimes they are so rare that the danger may be looked upon as non-existent. I speak, it must be understood, only of prisoners already condemned, who are undergoing their punishment, and some of whom are almost happy to find themselves in the convict prison; so attractive under all circumstances is a new form of life. These latter live quiet and contented. As for the turbulent ones, the convicts themselves keep them in restraint, and their arrogance never goes too far. The prisoner, audacious and reckless as he may be, is afraid of every official connected with the prison. It is by no means the same with the accused whose fate has not been decided. Such a one is quite capable of attacking, no matter whom, without any motive of hatred, and solely because he is to be whipped the next day. If, indeed, he commits a fresh crime his offence becomes complicated. Punishment is delayed, and he gains time. The act of aggression is explained; it has a cause, an object. The convict wishes at all hazards to change his fate, and that as soon as possible. In connection with this, I myself have witnessed a physiological fact of the strangest kind. In the section of military convicts was an old soldier who had been condemned to two years' hard labour, a great boaster, and at the same time a coward. Generally speaking, the Russian soldier does not boast. He has no time for doing so, even had he the inclination. When such a one appears among a multitude of others, he is always a coward and a rogue. Dutoff--that was the name of the prisoner of whom I am speaking--underwent his punishment, and then went back to the same battalion in the Line; but, like all who are sent to the convict prison to be corrected, he had been thoroughly corrupted. A "return horse" re-appears in the convict prison after two or three weeks' liberty, not for a comparatively short time, but for fifteen or twenty years. So it happened in the case of Dutoff. Three weeks after he had been set at liberty, he robbed one of his comrades, and was, moreover, mutinous. He was taken before a court-martial and sentenced to a severe form of corporal punishment. Horribly frightened, like the coward that he was, at the prospect of punishment, he threw himself, knife in hand, on to the officer of the guard, as he entered his dungeon on the eve of the day that he was to run the gauntlet through the men of his company. He quite understood that he was aggravating his offence, and that the duration of his punishment would be increased; but all he wanted was to postpone for some days, or at least for some hours, a terrible moment. He was such a coward that he did not even wound the officer whom he had attacked. He had, indeed, only committed this assault in order to add a new crime to the last already against him, and thus defer the sentence. The moment preceding the punishment is terrible for the man condemned to the rods. I have seen many of them on the eve of the fatal day. I generally met with them in the hospital when I was ill, which happened often enough. In Russia the people who show most compassion for the convicts are certainly the doctors, who never make between the prisoners the distinctions observed by other persons brought into direct relations with them. In this respect the common people can alone be compared with the doctors, for they never reproach a criminal with the crime that he has committed, whatever it may be. They forgive him in consideration of the sentence passed upon him. Is it not known that the common people throughout Russia call crime a "misfortune," and the criminal an "unfortunate"? This definition is expressive, profound, and, moreover, unconscious, instinctive. To the doctor the convicts have naturally recourse, above all when they are to undergo corporal punishment. The prisoner who has been before a court-martial knows pretty well at what moment his sentence will be executed. To escape it he gets himself sent to the hospital, in order to postpone for some days the terrible moment. When he is declared restored to health, he knows that the day after he leaves the hospital this moment will arrive. Accordingly, on quitting the hospital the convict is always in a state of agitation. Some of them may endeavour from vanity to conceal their anxiety, but no one is taken in by that; every one understands the cruelty of such a moment, and is silent from humane motives. I knew one young convict, an ex-soldier, sentenced for murder, who was to receive the maximum of rods. The eve of the day on which he was to be flogged, he had resolved to drink a bottle of vodka in which he had infused a quantity of snuff. The prisoner condemned to the rods always drinks, before the critical moment arrives, a certain amount of spirits which he has procured long beforehand, and often at a fabulous price. He would deprive himself of the necessaries of life for six months rather than not be in a position to swallow half a pint of vodka before the flogging. The convicts are convinced that a drunken man suffers less from the sticks or whip than one who is in cold blood. I will return to my narrative. The poor devil felt ill a few moments after he had swallowed his bottle of vodka. He vomited blood, and was carried in a state of unconsciousness to the hospital. His lungs were so much injured by this accident that phthisis declared itself, and carried off the soldier in a few months. The doctors who had attended him never knew the origin of his illness. If examples of cowardice are not rare among the prisoners, it must be added that there are some whose intrepidity is quite astounding. I remember many instances of courage pushed to the extreme. The arrival in the hospital of a terrible bandit remains fixed in my memory. One fine summer day the report was spread in the infirmary that the famous prisoner, Orloff, was to be flogged the same evening, and that he would be brought afterwards to the hospital. The prisoners who were already there said that the punishment would be a cruel one, and every one--including myself I must admit--was awaiting with curiosity the arrival of this brigand, about whom the most unheard-of things were told. He was a malefactor of a rare kind, capable of assassinating in cold blood old men and children. He possessed an indomitable force of will, and was fully conscious of his power. As he had been guilty of several crimes, they had condemned him to be flogged through the ranks. He was brought, or, rather carried, in towards evening. The place was already dark. Candles were lighted. Orloff was excessively pale, almost unconscious, with his thick curly hair of dull black without the least brilliancy. His back was skinned and swollen, blue, and stained with blood. The prisoners nursed him throughout the night; they changed his poultices, placed him on his side, prepared for him the lotion ordered by the doctor; in a word, showed as much solicitude for him as for a relation or benefactor. Next day he had fully recovered his faculties, and took one or two turns round the room. I was much astonished, for he was broken down and powerless when he was brought in. He had received half the number of blows ordered by the sentence. The doctor had stopped the punishment, convinced that if it were continued Orloff's death would inevitably ensue. This criminal was of a feeble constitution, weakened by long imprisonment. Whoever has seen prisoners after having been flogged, will remember their thin, drawn-out features and their feverish looks. Orloff soon recovered his powerful energy, which enabled him to get over his physical weakness. He was no ordinary man. From curiosity I made his acquaintance, and was able to study him at leisure for an entire week. Never in my life did I meet a man whose will was more firm or inflexible. I had seen at Tobolsk a celebrity of the same kind--a former chief of brigands. This man was a veritable wild beast; by being near him, without even knowing him, it was impossible not to recognise in him a dangerous creature. What above all frightened me was his stupidity. Matter, in this man, had taken such an ascendant over mind, that one could see at a glance that he cared for nothing in the world but the brutal satisfaction of his physical wants. I was certain, however, that Kareneff--that was his name--would have fainted on being condemned to such rigorous corporal punishment as Orloff had undergone; and that he would have murdered the first man near him without blinking. Orloff, on the contrary, was a brilliant example of the victory of spirit over matter. He had a perfect command over himself. He despised punishment, and feared nothing in the world. His dominant characteristic was boundless energy, a thirst for vengeance, and an immovable will when he had some object to attain. I was not astonished at his haughty air. He looked down upon all around him from the height of his grandeur. Not that he took the trouble to pose; his pride was an innate quality. I don't think that anything had the least influence over him. He looked upon everything with the calmest eye, as if nothing in the world could astonish him. He knew well that the other prisoners respected him; but he never took advantage of it to give himself airs. Nevertheless, vanity and conceit are defects from which scarcely any convict is exempt. He was intelligent and strangely frank in talking too much about himself. He replied point-blank to all the questions I put to him, and confessed to me that he was waiting impatiently for his return to health in order to take the remainder of the punishment he was to undergo. "Now," he said to me with a wink, "it is all over. I shall have the remainder, and shall be sent to Nertchinsk with a convoy of prisoners. I shall profit by it to escape. I shall get away beyond doubt. If only my back would heal a little quicker!" For five days he was burning with impatience to be in a condition for leaving the hospital At times he was gay and in the best of humours. I profited by these rare occasions to question him about his adventures. Then he would contract his eyebrows a little; but he always answered my questions in a straightforward manner. When he understood that I was endeavouring to see through him, and to discover in him some trace of repentance, he looked at me with a haughty and contemptuous air, as if I were a foolish little boy, to whom he did too much honour by conversing with him. I detected in his countenance a sort of compassion for me. After a moment's pause he laughed out loud, but without the least irony. I fancy he must, more than once, have laughed in the same manner, when my words returned to his memory. At last he wrote down his name as cured, although his back was not yet entirely healed. As I also was almost well, we left the infirmary together and returned to the convict prison, while he was shut up in the guard-room, where he had been imprisoned before. When he left me he shook me by the hand, which in his eyes was a great mark of confidence. I fancy he did so, because at that moment he was in a good humour. But in reality he must have despised me, for I was a feeble being, contemptible in all respects, and guilty above all of resignation. The next day he underwent the second half of his punishment. When the gates of the barracks had been closed, it assumed, in less than no time, quite another aspect--that of a private house, of quite a home. Then only did I see my convict comrades at their ease. During the day the under officers, or some of the other authorities, might suddenly arrive, so that the prisoners were then always on the look-out. They were only half at their ease. As soon, however, as the bolts had been pushed and the gates padlocked, every one sat down in his place and began to work. The barrack was lighted up in an unexpected manner. Each convict had his candle and his wooden candlestick. Some of them stitched boots, others sewed different kinds of garments. The air, already mephitic, became more and more impure. Some of the prisoners, huddled together in a corner, played at cards on a piece of carpet. In each barrack there was a prisoner who possessed a small piece of carpet, a candle, and a pack of horribly greasy cards. The owner of the cards received from the players fifteen kopecks [about sixpence] a night. They generally played at the "three leaves"--Gorka, that is to say: a game of chance. Each player placed before him a pile of copper money--all that he possessed--and did not get up until he had lost it or had broken the bank. Playing was continued until late at night; sometimes the dawn found the gamblers still at their game. Often, indeed, it did not cease until a few minutes before the opening of the gates. In our room--as in all the others--there were beggars ruined by drink and play, or rather beggars innate--I say innate, and maintain my expression. Indeed, in our country, and in all classes, there are, and always will be, strange easy-going people whose destiny it is to remain always beggars. They are poor devils all their lives; quite broken down, they remain under the domination or guardianship of some one, generally a prodigal, or a man who has suddenly made his fortune. All initiative is for them an insupportable burden. They only exist on condition of undertaking nothing for themselves, and by serving, always living under the will of another. They are destined to act by and through others. Under no circumstances, even of the most unexpected kind, can they get rich; they are always beggars. I have met these persons in all classes of society, in all coteries, in all associations, including the literary world. As soon as a party was made up, one of these beggars, quite indispensable to the game, was summoned. He received five kopecks for a whole night's employment; and what employment it was! His duty was to keep guard in the vestibule, with thirty degrees (Réaumur) of frost, in total darkness, for six or seven hours. The man on watch had to listen for the slightest noise, for the Major or one of the other officers of the guard would sometimes make a round rather late in the night. They arrived secretly, and sometimes discovered the players and the watchers in the act--thanks to the light of the candles, which could be seen from the court-yard. When the key was heard grinding in the padlock which closed the gate, it was too late to put the lights out and lie down on the plank bedsteads. Such surprises were, however, rare. Five kopecks was a ridiculous payment even in our convict prison, and the exigency and hardness of the gamblers astonished me in this as in many cases: "You are paid, you must do what you are told." This was the argument, and it admitted of no reply. To have paid a few kopecks to any one gave the right to turn him to the best possible account, and even to claim his gratitude. More than once it happened to me to see the convicts spend their money extravagantly, throwing it away on all sides, and, at the same time, cheat the man employed to watch. I have seen this in several barracks on many occasions. I have already said that, with the exception of the gamblers, every one worked. Five only of the convicts remained completely idle, and went to bed on the first opportunity. My sleeping place was near the door. Next to me was Akim Akimitch, and when we were lying down our heads touched. He used to work until ten or eleven at making, by pasting together pieces of paper, multicolour lanterns, which some one living in the town had ordered from him, and for which he used to be well paid. He excelled in this kind of work, and did it methodically and regularly. When he had finished he put away carefully his tools, unfolded his mattress, said his prayers, and went to sleep with the sleep of the just. He carried his love of order even to pedantry, and must have thought himself in his inner heart a man of brains, as is generally the case with narrow, mediocre persons. I did not like him the first day, although he gave me much to think of. I was astonished that such a man could be found in a convict prison. I shall speak of Akimitch further on in the course of this book. But I must now continue to describe the persons with whom I was to live a number of years. Those who surrounded me were to be my companions every minute, and it will be understood that I looked upon them with anxious curiosity. On my left slept a band of mountaineers from the Caucasus, nearly all exiled for brigandage, but condemned to different punishments. There were two Lesghians, a Circassian, and three Tartars from Daghestan. The Circassian was a morose and sombre person. He scarcely ever spoke, and looked at you sideways with a sly, sulky, wild-beast-like expression. One of the Lesghians, an old man with an aquiline nose, tall and thin, seemed to be a true brigand; but the other Lesghian, Nourra by name, made a most favourable impression upon me. Of middle height, still young, built like a Hercules, with fair hair and violet eyes; he had a slightly turned up nose, while his features were somewhat of a Finnish cast. Like all horsemen, he walked with his toes in. His body was striped with scars, ploughed by bayonet wounds and bullets. Although he belonged to the conquered part of the Caucasus, he had joined the rebels, with whom he used to make continual incursions into our territory. Every one liked him in the prison by reason of his gaiety and affability. He worked without murmuring, always calm and peaceful. Thieving, cheating, and drunkenness filled him with disgust, or put him in a rage--not that he wished to quarrel with any one; he simply turned away with indignation. During his confinement he committed no breach of the rules. Fervently pious, he said his prayers religiously every evening, observed all the Mohammedan fasts like a true fanatic, and passed whole nights in prayer. Every one liked him, and looked upon him as a thoroughly honest man. "Nourra is a lion," said the convicts; and the name of "Lion" stuck to him. He was quite convinced that as soon as he had finished his sentence he would be sent to the Caucasus. Indeed, he only lived by this hope, and I believe he would have died had he been deprived of it. I noticed it the very day of my arrival. How was it possible not to distinguish this calm, honest face in the midst of so many sombre, sardonic, repulsive countenances! Before I had been half-an-hour in the prison, he passed by my side and touched me gently on the shoulder, smiling at the same time with an innocent air. I did not at first understand what he meant, for he spoke Russian very badly; but soon afterwards he passed again, and, with a friendly smile, again touched me on the shoulder. For three days running he repeated this strange proceeding. As I soon found out, he wanted to show me that he pitied me, and that he felt how painful the first moment of imprisonment must be. He wanted to testify his sympathy, to keep up my spirits, and to assure me of his good-will. Kind and innocent Nourra! Of the three Tartars from Daghestan, all brothers, the two eldest were well-developed men, while the youngest, Ali, was not more than twenty-two, and looked younger. He slept by my side, and when I observed his frank, intelligent countenance, thoroughly natural, I was at once attracted to him, and thanked my fate that I had him for a neighbour in place of some other prisoner. His whole soul could be read in his beaming countenance. His confident smile had a certain childish simplicity; his large black eyes expressed such friendliness, such tender feeling, that I always took a pleasure in looking at him. It was a relief to me in moments of sadness and anguish. One day his eldest brother--he had five, of whom two were working in the mines of Siberia--had ordered him to take his yataghan, to get on horseback, and follow him. The respect of the mountaineers for their elders is so great that young Ali did not dare to ask the object of the expedition. He probably knew nothing about it, nor did his brothers consider it necessary to tell him. They were going to plunder the caravan of a rich Armenian merchant, and they succeeded in their enterprise. They assassinated the merchant and stole his goods. Unhappily for them, their act of brigandage was discovered. They were tried, flogged, and then sent to hard labour in Siberia. The Court admitted no extenuating circumstances, except in the case of Ali. He was condemned to the minimum punishment--four years' confinement. These brothers loved him, their affection being paternal rather than fraternal. He was the only consolation of their exile. Dull and sad as a rule, they had always a smile for him when they spoke to him, which they rarely did--for they looked upon him as a child to whom it would be useless to speak seriously--their forbidding countenances lightened up. I fancied they always spoke to him in a jocular tone, as to an infant. When he replied, the brothers exchanged glances, and smiled good-naturedly. He would not have dared to speak to them first by reason of his respect for them. How this young man preserved his tender heart, his native honesty, his frank cordiality without getting perverted and corrupted during his period of hard labour, is quite inexplicable. In spite of his gentleness, he had a strong stoical nature, as I afterwards saw. Chaste as a young girl, everything that was foul, cynical, shameful, or unjust filled his fine black eyes with indignation, and made them finer than ever. Without being a coward, he would allow himself to be insulted with impunity. He avoided quarrels and insults, and preserved all his dignity. With whom, indeed, was he to quarrel? Every one loved him, caressed him. At first he was only polite to me; but little by little we got into the habit of talking together in the evening, and in a few months he had learnt to speak Russian perfectly, whereas his brothers never gained a correct knowledge of the language. He was intelligent, and at the same time modest and full of delicate feeling. Ali was an exceptional being, and I always think of my meeting him as one of the lucky things in my life. There are some natures so spontaneously good and endowed by God with such great qualities that the idea of their getting perverted seems absurd. One is always at ease about them. Accordingly I had never any fears about Ali. Where is he now? One day, a considerable time after my arrival at the convict prison, I was stretched out on my camp-bedstead agitated by painful thoughts. Ali, always industrious, was not working at this moment. His time for going to bed had not arrived. The brothers were celebrating some Mussulman festival, and were not working. Ali was lying down with his head between his hands in a state of reverie. Suddenly he said to me: "Well, you are very sad!" I looked at him with curiosity. Such a remark from Ali, always so delicate, so full of tact, seemed strange. But I looked at him more attentively, and saw so much grief, so much repressed suffering in his countenance--of suffering caused no doubt by sudden recollections--that I understood in what pain he must be, and said so to him. He uttered a deep sigh, and smiled with a melancholy air. I always liked his graceful, agreeable smile. When he laughed, he showed two rows of teeth which the first beauty in the world would have envied him. "You were probably thinking, Ali, how this festival is celebrated in Daghestan. Ah, you were happy there!" "Yes," he replied with enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkled. "How did you know I was thinking of such things?" "How was I not to know? You were much better off than you are here." "Why do you say that?" "What beautiful flowers there are in your country! Is it not so? It is a true paradise." "Be silent, please." He was much agitated. "Listen, Ali. Had you a sister?" "Yes; why do you ask me?" "She must have been very beautiful if she is like you?" "Oh, there is no comparison to make between us. In all Daghestan no such beautiful girl is to be seen. My sister is, indeed, charming. I am sure that you have never seen any one like her. My mother also is very handsome." "And your mother was fond of you?" "What are you saying? Certainly she was. I am sure that she has died of grief, she was so fond of me. I was her favourite child. Yes, she loved me more than my sister, more than all the others. This very night she has appeared to me in a dream, she shed tears for me." He was silent, and throughout the rest of the night did not open his mouth; but from this very moment he sought my company and my conversation; although very respectful, he never allowed himself to address me first. On the other hand he was happy when I entered into conversation with him. He spoke often of the Caucasus, and of his past life. His brothers did not forbid him to converse with me; I think even that they encouraged him to do so. When they saw that I had formed an attachment to him, they became more affable towards me. Ali often helped me in my work. In the barrack he did whatever he thought would be agreeable to me, and would save me trouble. In his attentions to me there was neither servility nor the hope of any advantage, but only a warm, cordial feeling, which he did not try to hide. He had an extraordinary aptitude for the mechanical arts. He had learnt to sew very tolerably, and to mend boots; he even understood a little carpentering--everything in short that could be learnt at the convict prison. His brothers were proud of him. "Listen, Ali," I said to him one day, "why don't you learn to read and write the Russian language, it might be very useful to you here in Siberia?" "I should like to do so, but who would teach me?" "There are plenty of people here who can read and write. I myself will teach you if you like." "Oh, do teach me, I beg of you," said Ali, raising himself up in bed; he joined his hands and looked at me with a suppliant air. We went to work the very next evening. I had with me a Russian translation of the New Testament, the only book that was not forbidden in the prison. With this book alone, without an alphabet, Ali learnt to read in a few weeks, and after a few months he could read perfectly. He brought to his studies extraordinary zeal and warmth. One day we were reading together the Sermon on the Mount. I noticed that he read certain passages with much feeling; and I asked him if he was pleased with what he read. He glanced at me, and his face suddenly lighted up. "Yes, yes, Jesus is a holy prophet. He speaks the language of God. How beautiful it is!" "But tell me what it is that particularly pleases you." "The passage in which it is said, 'Forgive those that hate you!' Ah! how divinely He speaks!" He turned towards his brothers, who were listening to our conversation, and said to them with warmth a few words. They talked together seriously for some time, giving their approval of what their young brother had said by a nodding of the head. Then with a grave, kindly smile, quite a Mussulman smile (I liked the gravity of this smile), they assured me that Isu [Jesus] was a great prophet. He had done great miracles. He had created a bird with a little clay on which he breathed the breath of life, and the bird had then flown away. That, they said, was written in their books. They were convinced that they would please me much by praising Jesus. As for Ali, he was happy to see that his brothers approved of our friendship, and that they were giving me, what he thought would be, grateful words. The success I had with my pupil in teaching him to write, was really extraordinary. Ali had bought paper at his own expense, for he would not allow me to purchase any, also pens and ink; and in less than two months he had learnt to write. His brothers were astonished at such rapid progress. Their satisfaction and their pride were without bounds. They did not know how to show me enough gratitude. At the workshop, if we happened to be together, there were disputes as to which of them should help me. I do not speak of Ali, he felt for me more affection than even for his brothers. I shall never forget the day on which he was liberated. He went with me outside the barracks, threw himself on my neck and sobbed. He had never embraced me before, and had never before wept in my presence. "You have done so much for me," he said; "neither my father nor my mother have ever been kinder. You have made a man of me. God will bless you, I shall never forget you, never!" Where is he now, where is my good, kind, dear Ali? Besides the Circassians, we had a certain number of Poles, who formed a separate group. They had scarcely any relations with the other convicts. I have already said that, thanks to their hatred for the Russian prisoners, they were detested by every one. They were of a restless, morbid disposition: there were six of them, some of them men of education, of whom I shall speak in detail further on. It was from them that during the last days of my imprisonment I obtained a few books. The first work I read made a deep impression upon me. I shall speak further on of these sensations, which I look upon as very curious, though it will be difficult to understand them. Of this I am certain, for there are certain things as to which one cannot judge without having experienced them oneself. It will be enough for me to say that intellectual privations are more difficult to support than the most frightful, physical tortures. A common man sent to hard labour finds himself in kindred society, perhaps even in a more interesting society than he has been accustomed to. He loses his native place, his family; but his ordinary surroundings are much the same as before. A man of education, condemned by law to the same punishment as the common man, suffers incomparably more. He must stifle all his needs, all his habits, he must descend into a lower sphere, must breathe another air. He is like a fish thrown upon the sand. The punishment that he undergoes, equal for all criminals according to the law, is ten times more severe and more painful for him than for the common man. This is an incontestable truth, even if one thinks only of the material habits that have to be sacrificed. I was saying that the Poles formed a group by themselves. They lived together, and of all the convicts in the prison, they cared only for a Jew, and for no other reason than because he amused them. Our Jew was generally liked, although every one laughed at him. We only had one, and even now I cannot think of him without laughing. Whenever I looked at him I thought of the Jew Jankel, whom Gogol describes in his Tarass Boulba, and who, when undressed and ready to go to bed with his Jewess in a sort of cupboard, resembled a fowl; but Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein and a plucked fowl were as like one another as two drops of water. He was already of a certain age--about fifty--small, feeble, cunning, and, at the same time, very stupid, bold, and boastful, though a horrible coward. His face was covered with wrinkles, his forehead and cheeks were scarred from the burning he had received in the pillory. I never understood how he had been able to support the sixty strokes he received. He had been sentenced for murder. He carried on his person a medical prescription which had been given to him by other Jews immediately after his exposure in the pillory. Thanks to the ointment prescribed, the scars were to disappear in less than a fortnight. He had been afraid to use it. He was waiting for the expiration of his twenty years (after which he would become a colonist) in order to utilise his famous remedy. "Otherwise I shall not be able to get married," he would say; "and I must absolutely marry." We were great friends: his good-humour was inexhaustible. The life of the convict prison did not seem to disagree with him. A goldsmith by trade, he received more orders than he could execute, for there was no jeweller's shop in our town. He thus escaped his hard labour. As a matter of course, he lent money on pledges to the convicts, who paid him heavy interest. He arrived at the prison before I did. One of the Poles related to me his triumphal entry. It is quite a history, which I shall relate further on, for I shall often have to speak of Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein. As for the other prisoners there were, first of all, four "old believers," among whom was the old man from Starodoub, two or three Little Russians, very morose persons, and a young convict with delicate features and a finely-chiselled nose, about twenty-three years of age, who had already committed eight murders; besides a band of coiners, one of whom was the buffoon of our barracks; and, finally, some sombre, sour-tempered convicts, shorn and disfigured, always silent, and full of envy. They looked askance at all who came near them, and must have continued to do so during a long course of years. I saw all this superficially on the first night of my arrival, in the midst of thick smoke, in a mephitic atmosphere, amid obscene oaths, accompanied by the rattling of chains, by insults, and cynical laughter. I stretched myself out on the bare planks, my head resting on my coat, rolled up to do duty in lieu of a pillow, not yet supplied to me. Then I covered myself with my sheepskin, but, thanks to the painful impression of this evening, I was unable for some time to get to sleep. My new life was only just beginning. The future reserved for me many things which I had not foreseen, and of which I had never the least idea. CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST MONTH Three days after my arrival I was ordered to go to work. The impression left upon me to this day is still very clear, although there was nothing very striking in it, unless one considers that my position was in itself extraordinary. The first sensations count for a good deal, and I as yet looked upon everything with curiosity. My first three days were certainly the most painful of all my terms of imprisonment. My wandering is at an end, I said to myself every moment. I am now in the convict prison, my resting-place for many years. Here is where I am to live. I come here full of grief, who knows that when I leave it I shall not do so with regret? I said this to myself as one touches a wound, the better to feel its pain. The idea that I might regret my stay was terrible to me. Already I felt to what an intolerable degree man is a creature of habit, but this was a matter of the future. The present, meanwhile, was terrible enough. The wild curiosity with which my convict companions examined me, their harshness towards a former nobleman now entering into their corporation, a harshness which sometimes took the form of hatred--all this tormented me to such a degree that I felt obliged of my own accord to go to work in order to measure at one stroke the whole extent of my misfortune, that I might at once begin to live like the others, and fall with them into the same abyss. But convicts differ, and I had not yet disentangled from the general hostility the sympathy here and there manifested towards me. After a time the affability and good-will shown to me by certain convicts gave me a little courage, and restored my spirits. Most friendly among them was Akim Akimitch. I soon noticed some kind, good-natured faces in the dark and hateful crowd. Bad people are to be found everywhere, but even among the worst there may be something good, I began to think, by way of consolation. Who knows? These persons are perhaps not worse than others who are free. While making these reflections I felt some doubts, and, nevertheless, how much I was in the right! The convict Suchiloff, for example; a man whose acquaintance I did not make until long afterwards, although he was near me during nearly the whole period of my confinement. Whenever I speak of the convicts who are not worse than other men, my thoughts turn involuntarily to him. He acted as my servant, together with another prisoner named Osip, whom Akim Akimitch had recommended to me immediately after my arrival. For thirty kopecks a month this man agreed to cook me a separate dinner, in case I should not be able to put up with the ordinary prison fare, and should be able to pay for my own food. Osip was one of the four cooks chosen by the prisoners in our two kitchens. I may observe that they were at liberty to refuse these duties, and give them up whenever they might think fit. The cooks were men from whom hard labour was not expected. They had to bake bread and prepare the cabbage soup. They were called "cook-maids," not from contempt, for the men chosen were always the most intelligent, but merely in fun. The name given to them did not annoy them. For many years past Osip had been constantly selected as "cook-maid." He never refused the duty except when he was out of sorts, or when he saw an opportunity of getting spirits into the barracks. Although he had been sent to the convict prison as a smuggler, he was remarkably honest and good-tempered (I have spoken of him before); at the same time he was a dreadful coward, and feared the rod above all things. Of a peaceful, patient disposition, affable with everybody, he never got into quarrels; but he could never resist the temptation of bringing spirits in, notwithstanding his cowardice, and simply from his love of smuggling. Like all the other cooks he dealt in spirits, but on a much less extensive scale than Gazin, because he was afraid of running the same risks. I always lived on good terms with Osip. To have a separate table it was not necessary to be very rich; it cost me only one rouble a month apart from the bread, which was given to us. Sometimes when I was very hungry I made up my mind to eat the cabbage soup, in spite of the disgust with which it generally filled me. After a time this disgust entirely disappeared. I generally bought one pound of meat a day, which cost me two kopecks--[5 kopecks = 2 pence.] The old soldiers, who watched over the internal discipline of the barracks, were ready, good-naturedly, to go every day to the market to make purchases for the convicts. For this they received no pay, except from time to time a trifling present. They did it for the sake of their peace; their life in the convict prison would have been a perpetual torment had they refused. They used to bring in tobacco, tea, meat--everything, in short, that was desired, always excepting spirits. For many years Osip prepared for me every day a piece of roast meat. How he managed to get it cooked was a secret. What was strangest in the matter was, that during all this time I scarcely exchanged two words with him. I tried many times to make him talk, but he was incapable of keeping up a conversation. He would only smile and answer my questions by "yes" or "no." He was a Hercules, but he had no more intelligence than a child of seven. Suchiloff was also one of those who helped me. I had never asked him to do so, he attached himself to me on his own account, and I scarcely remember when he began to do so. His principal duty consisted in washing my linen. For this purpose there was a basin in the middle of the court-yard, round which the convicts washed their clothes in prison buckets. Suchiloff had found means for rendering me a number of little services. He boiled my tea-urn, ran right and left to perform various commissions for me, got me all kinds of things, mended my clothes, and greased my boots four times a month. He did all this in a zealous manner, with a business-like air, as if he felt all the weight of the duties he was performing. He seemed quite to have joined his fate to mine, and occupied himself with all my affairs. He never said: "You have so many shirts, or your waistcoat is torn;" but, "We have so many shirts, and our waistcoat is torn." I had somehow inspired him with admiration, and I really believe that I had become his sole care in life. As he knew no trade whatever his only source of income was from me, and it must be understood that I paid him very little; but he was always pleased, whatever he might receive. He would have been without means had he not been a servant of mine, and he gave me the preference because I was more affable than the others, and, above all, more equitable in money matters. He was one of those beings who never get rich, and never know how to manage their affairs; one of those in the prison who were hired by the gamblers to watch all night in the ante-chamber, listening for the least noise that might announce the arrival of the Major. If there was a night visit they received nothing, indeed their back paid for their want of attention. One thing which marks this kind of men is their entire absence of individuality, which they seem entirely to have lost. Suchiloff was a poor, meek fellow; all the courage seemed to have been beaten out of him, although he had in reality been born meek. For nothing in the world would he have raised his hand against any one in the prison. I always pitied him without knowing why. I could not look at him without feeling the deepest compassion for him. If asked to explain this, I should find it impossible to do so. I could never get him to talk, and he never became animated, except when, to put an end to all attempts at conversation, I gave him something to do, or told him to go somewhere for me. I soon found that he loved to be ordered about. Neither tall nor short, neither ugly nor handsome, neither stupid nor intelligent, neither old nor young, it would be difficult to describe in any definite manner this man, except that his face was slightly pitted with the small-pox, and that he had fair hair. He belonged, as far as I could make out, to the same company as Sirotkin. The prisoners sometimes laughed at him because he had "exchanged." During the march to Siberia he had exchanged for a red shirt and a silver rouble. It was thought comical that he should have sold himself for such a small sum, to take the name of another prisoner in place of his own, and consequently to accept the other's sentence. Strange as it may appear it was nevertheless true. This custom, which had become traditional, and still existed at the time I was sent to Siberia, I, at first, refused to believe, but found afterwards that it really existed. This is how the exchange was effected: A company of prisoners started for Siberia. Among them there are exiles of all kinds, some condemned to hard labour, others to labour in the mines, others to simple colonisation. On the way out, no matter at what stage of the journey, in the Government of Perm, for instance, a prisoner wishes to exchange with another man, who--we will say he is named Mikhailoff--has been condemned to hard labour for a capital offence, and does not like the prospect of passing long years without his liberty. He knows, in his cunning, what to do. He looks among his comrades for some simple, weak-minded fellow, whose punishment is less severe, who has been condemned to a few years in the mines, or to hard labour, or has perhaps been simply exiled. At last he finds such a man as Suchiloff, a former serf, sentenced only to become a colonist. The man has made fifteen hundred versts [about one thousand miles] without a kopeck, for the good reason that a Suchiloff is always without money; fatigued, exhausted, he can get nothing to eat beyond the fixed rations, nothing to wear in addition to the convict uniform. Mikhailoff gets into conversation with Suchiloff, they suit one another, and they strike up a friendship. At last at some station Mikhailoff makes his comrade drunk, then he will ask him if he will "exchange." "My name is Mikhailoff," he says to him, "condemned to what is called hard labour, but which, in my own case, will be nothing of the kind, as I am to enter a particular special section. I am classed with the hard-labour men, but in my special division the labour is not so severe." Before the special section was abolished, many persons in the official world, even at St. Petersburg, were unaware even of its existence. It was in such a retired corner of one of the most distant regions of Siberia, that it was difficult to know anything about it. It was insignificant, moreover, from the number of persons belonging to it. In my time they numbered altogether only seventy. I have since met men who have served in Siberia, and know the country well, and yet have never heard of the "special section." In the rules and regulations there are only six lines about this institution. Attached to the convict prison of ---- is a special section reserved for the most dangerous criminals, while the severest labours are being prepared for them. The prisoners themselves knew nothing of this special section. Did it exist temporarily or constantly? Neither Suchiloff nor any of the prisoners being sent out, not Mikhailoff himself could guess the significance of those two words. Mikhailoff, however, had his suspicion as to the true character of this section. He formed his opinion from the gravity of the crime for which he was made to march three or four thousand versts on foot. It was certain that he was not being sent to a place where he would be at his ease. Suchiloff was to be a colonist. What could Mikhailoff desire better than that? "Won't you change?" he asks. Suchiloff is a little drunk, he is a simple-minded man, full of gratitude to the comrade who entertains him, and dare not refuse; he has heard, moreover, from other prisoners, that these exchanges are made, and understands, therefore, that there is nothing extraordinary, unheard-of, in the proposition made to him. An agreement is come to, the cunning Mikhailoff, profiting by Suchiloff's simplicity, buys his name for a red shirt, and a silver rouble, which are given before witnesses. The next day Suchiloff is sober; but more liquor is given to him. Then he drinks up his own rouble, and after a while the red shirt has the same fate. "If you don't like the bargain we made, give me back my money," says Mikhailoff. But where is Suchiloff to get a rouble? If he does not give it back, the "artel" [_i.e._, the association--in this case of convicts] will force him to keep his promise. The prisoners are very sensitive on such points: he must keep his promise. The "artel" requires it, and, in case of disobedience, woe to the offender! He will be killed, or at least seriously intimidated. If indeed the "artel" once showed mercy to the men who had broken their word, there would be an end to its existence. If the given word can be recalled, and the bargain put an end to after the stipulated sum has been paid, who would be bound by such an agreement? It is a question of life or death for the "artel." Accordingly the prisoners are very severe on the point. Suchiloff then finds that it is impossible to go back, that nothing can save him, and he accordingly agrees to all that is demanded of him. The bargain is then made known to all the convoy, and if denunciations are feared, the men looked upon as suspicious are entertained. What, moreover, does it matter to the others whether Mikhailoff or Suchiloff goes to the devil? They have had gratuitous drinks, they have been feasted for nothing, and the secret is kept by all. At the next station the names are called. When Mikhailoff's turn arrives, Suchiloff answers "present," Mikhailoff replies "present" for Suchiloff, and the journey is continued. The matter is not now even talked about. At Tobolsk the prisoners are told off. Mikhailoff will become a colonist, while Suchiloff is sent to the special section under a double escort. It would be useless now to cry out, to protest, for what proof could be given? How many years would it take to decide the affair, what benefit would the complainant derive? Where, moreover, are the witnesses? They would deny everything, even if they could be found. That is how Suchiloff, for a silver rouble and a red shirt, came to be sent to the special section. The prisoners laughed at him, not because he had exchanged--though in general they despised those who had been foolish enough to exchange a work that was easy for a work that was hard--but simply because he had received nothing for the bargain except a red shirt and a rouble--certainly a ridiculous compensation. Generally speaking, the exchanges are made for relatively large sums; several ten-rouble notes sometimes change hands. But Suchiloff was so characterless, so insignificant, so null, that he could scarcely even be laughed at. We lived a considerable time together, he and I; I had got accustomed to him, and he had formed an attachment for me. One day, however--I can never forgive myself for what I did--he had not executed my orders, and when he came to ask me for his money I had the cruelty to say to him, "You don't forget to ask for your money, but you don't do what you are told." Suchiloff remained silent and hastened to do as he was ordered, but he suddenly became very sad. Two days passed. I could not believe that what I had said to him could affect him so much. I knew that a person named Vassilieff was claiming from him in a morose manner payment of a small debt. Suchiloff was probably short of money, and did not dare to ask me for any. "Suchiloff, you wish, I think, to ask me for some money to pay Vassilieff; take this." I was seated on my camp-bedstead. Suchiloff remained standing up before me, much astonished that I myself should propose to give him money, and that I remembered his difficult position; the more so as latterly he had asked me several times for money in advance, and could scarcely hope that I should give him any more. He looked at the paper I held out to him, then looked at me, turned sharply on his heel and went out. I was as astonished as I could be. I went out after him, and found him at the back of the barracks. He was standing up with his face against the palisade and his arms resting on the stakes. "What is the matter, Suchiloff?" I asked him. He made no reply, and to my stupefaction I saw that he was on the point of bursting into tears. "You think, Alexander Petrovitch," he said, in a trembling voice, in endeavouring not to look at me, "that I care only for your money, but I----" He turned away from me, and struck the palisade with his forehead and began to sob. It was the first time in the convict prison that I had seen a man weep. I had much trouble in consoling him; and he afterwards served me, if possible, with more zeal than ever. He watched for my orders, but by almost imperceptible indications I could see that his heart would never forgive me for my reproach. Meanwhile other men laughed at him and teased him whenever the opportunity presented itself, and even insulted him without his losing his temper; on the contrary, he still remained on good terms with them. It is indeed difficult to know a man, even after having lived long years with him. The convict prison had not at first for me the significance it was afterwards to assume. I was at first, in spite of my attention, unable to understand many facts which were staring me in the face. I was naturally first struck by the most salient points, but I saw them from a false point of view, and the only impression they made upon me was one of unmitigated sadness. What contributed above all to this result was my meeting with A----f, the convict who had come to the prison before me, and who had astonished me in such a painful manner during the first few days. The effect of his baseness was to aggravate my moral suffering, already sufficiently cruel. He offered the most repulsive example of the kind of degradation and baseness to which a man may fall when all feeling of honour has perished within him. This young man of noble birth--I have spoken of him before--used to repeat to the Major all that was done in the barracks, and in doing so through the Major's body-servant Fedka. Here is the man's history. Arrived at St. Petersburg before he had finished his studies, after a quarrel with his parents, whom his life of debauchery had terrified, he had not shrunk for the sake of money from doing the work of an informer. He did not hesitate to sell the blood of ten men in order to satisfy his insatiable thirst for the grossest and most licentious pleasures. At last he became so completely perverted in the St. Petersburg taverns and houses of ill-fame, that he did not hesitate to take part in an affair which he knew to be conceived in madness--for he was not without intelligence. He was condemned to exile and ten years' hard labour in Siberia. One might have thought that such a frightful blow would have shocked him, that it would have caused some reaction and brought about a crisis; but he accepted his new fate without the least confusion. It did not frighten him; all that he feared in it was the necessity of working, and of giving up for ever his habits of debauchery. The name of convict had no effect but to prepare him for new acts of baseness, and more hideous villainies than any he had previously perpetrated. "I am now a convict, and can crawl at ease, without shame." That was the light in which he looked upon his new position. I think of this disgusting creature as of some monstrous phenomenon. During the many years I have lived in the midst of murderers, debauchees, and proved rascals, never in my life did I meet a case of such complete moral abasement, determined corruption, and shameless baseness. Among us there was a parricide of noble birth. I have already spoken of him; but I could see by several signs that he was much better and more humane than A----f. During the whole time of my punishment, he was never anything more in my eyes than a piece of flesh furnished with teeth and a stomach, greedy for the most offensive and ferocious animal enjoyments, for the satisfaction of which he was ready to assassinate anyone. I do not exaggerate in the least; I recognised in A----f one of the most perfect specimens of animality, restrained by no principles, no rule. How much I was disgusted by his eternal smile! He was a monster--a moral Quasimodo. He was at the same time intelligent, cunning, good-looking, had received some education, and possessed a certain capacity. Fire, plague, famine, no matter what scourge, is preferable to the presence of such a man in human society. I have already said that in the convict prison espionage and denunciation flourished as the natural product of degradation, without the convicts thinking much of it. On the contrary, they maintained friendly relations with A----f. They were more affable with him than with any one else. The kindly attitude towards him of our drunken friend, the Major, gave him a certain importance, and even a certain worth in the eyes of the convicts. Later on, this cowardly wretch ran away with another convict and the soldier in charge of them; but of this I shall speak in proper time and place. At first, he hung about me, thinking I did not know his history. I repeat that he poisoned the first days of my imprisonment so as to drive me nearly to despair. I was terrified by the mass of baseness and cowardice in the midst of which I had been thrown. I imagined that every one else was as foul and cowardly as he. But I made a mistake in supposing that every one resembled A----f. During the first three days I did nothing but wander about the convict prison, when I did not remain stretched out on my camp-bedstead. I entrusted to a prisoner of whom I was sure, the piece of linen which had been delivered to me by the administration, in order that he might make me some shirts. Always on the advice of Akim Akimitch, I got myself a folding mattress. It was in felt, covered with linen, as thin as a pancake, and very hard to any one who was not accustomed to it. Akim Akimitch promised to get me all the most essential things, and with his own hands made me a blanket out of a piece of old cloth, cut and sewn together from all the old trousers and waistcoats which I had bought from various prisoners. The clothes delivered to them, when they have been worn the regulation time, become the property of the prisoners. They at once sell them, for however much worn an article of clothing may be, it always possesses a certain value. I was very much astonished by all this, above all at the outset, during my first relations with this world. I became as low as my companions, as much a convict as they. Their customs, their habits, their ideas influenced me thoroughly, and externally became my own, without affecting my inner self. I was astonished and confused as though I had never heard or suspected anything of the kind before, and yet I knew what to expect, or at least what had been told me. The thing itself, however, produced on me a different impression from the mere description of it. How could I suppose, for instance, that old rags possessed still some value? And, nevertheless, my blanket was made up entirely of tatters. It would be difficult to describe the cloth out of which the clothes of the convicts were made. It was like the thick, gray cloth manufactured for the soldiers, but as soon as it had been worn some little time it showed the threads and tore with abominable ease. The uniform ought to have lasted for a whole year, but it never went so long as that. The prisoner labours, carries heavy burdens, and the cloth naturally wears out, and gets into holes very quickly. Our sheepskins were intended to be worn for three years. During the whole of that time they served as outer garments, blankets, and pillows, but they were very solid. Nevertheless, at the end of the third year, it was not rare to see them mended with ordinary linen. Although they were now very much worn, it was always possible to sell them at the rate of forty kopecks a piece, the best preserved ones even at the price of sixty kopecks, which was a great sum for the convict prison. Money, as I have before said, has a sovereign value in such a place. It is certain that a prisoner who has some pecuniary resources suffers ten times less than the one who has nothing. "When the Government supplies all the wants of the convict, what need can he have for money?" reasoned our chief. Nevertheless, I repeat that if the prisoners had been deprived of the opportunity of possessing something of their own, they would have lost their reason, or would have died like flies. They would have committed unheard-of crimes; some from wearisomeness or grief, the others, in order to get sooner punished, and, according to their expression, "have a change." If the convict who has gained some kopecks by the sweat of his brow, who has embarked in perilous undertakings in order to conquer them, if he spends this money recklessly, with childish stupidity, that does not the least in the world prove that he does not know its value, as might at first sight be thought. The convict is greedy for money, to the point of losing his reason, and, if he throws it away, he does so in order to procure what he places far above money--liberty, or at least a semblance of liberty. Convicts are great dreamers; I will speak of that further on with more detail. At present I will confine myself to saying that I have heard men, who had been condemned to twenty years' hard labour, say, with a quiet air, "when I have finished my time, if God wishes, then----" The very words hard labour, or forced labour, indicate that the man has lost his freedom; and when this man spends his money he is carrying out his own will. In spite of the branding and the chains, in spite of the palisade which hides from his eyes the free world, and encloses him in a cage like a wild beast, he can get himself spirits and other delights; sometimes even (not always), corrupt his immediate superintendents, the old soldiers and non-commissioned officers, and get them to close their eyes to his infractions of discipline within the prison. He can, moreover--what he adores--swagger; that is to say, impress his companions and persuade himself for a time, that he enjoys more liberty than he really possesses. The poor devil wishes, in a word, to convince himself of what he knows to be impossible. This is why the prisoners take such pleasure in boasting and exaggerating in burlesque fashion their own unhappy personality. Finally, they run some risk when they give themselves up to this boasting; in which again they find a semblance of life and liberty--the only thing they care for. Would not a millionaire with a rope round his neck give all his millions for one breath of air? A prisoner has lived quietly for several years in succession, his conduct has been so exemplary that he has been rewarded by special exemptions. Suddenly, to the great astonishment of his chiefs, this man becomes mutinous, plays the very devil, and does not recoil from a capital crime such as assassination, violation, etc. Every one is astounded at the cause of this unexpected explosion on the part of a man thought incapable of such a thing. It is the convulsive manifestation of his personality, an instinctive melancholia, an uncontrollable desire for self-assertion, all of which obscures his reason. It is a sort of epileptic attack, a spasm. A man buried alive who suddenly wakes up must strike in a similar manner against the lid of his coffin. He tries to rise up, to push it from him, although his reason must convince him of the uselessness of his efforts. Reason, however, has nothing to do with this convulsion. It must not be forgotten that almost every voluntary manifestation on the part of a convict is looked upon as a crime. Accordingly, it is a perfect matter of indifference to them whether this manifestation be important or insignificant, debauch for debauch, danger for danger. It is just as well to go to the end, even as far as a murder. The only difficulty is the first step. Little by little the man becomes excited, intoxicated, and can no longer contain himself. For that reason it would be better not to drive him to extremities. Everybody would be much better for it. But how can this be managed? CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST MONTH (_continued_) When I entered the convict prison I possessed a small sum of money; but I carried very little of it about with me, lest it should be confiscated. I had gummed some banknotes into the binding of my New Testament--the only book authorised in the convict prison. This New Testament had been given to me at Tobolsk, by a person who had been exiled some dozens of years, and who had got accustomed to see in other "unfortunates" a brother. There are in Siberia people who pass their lives in giving brotherly assistance to the "unfortunates." They feel the same sympathy for them that they would have for their own children. Their compassion is something sacred and quite disinterested. I cannot help here relating in some words a meeting which I had at this time. In the town where we were then imprisoned lived a widow, Nastasia Ivanovna. Naturally, none of us were in direct relations with this woman. She had made it the object of her life to come to the assistance of all the exiles; but, above all, of us convicts. Had there been some misfortune in her family? Had some person dear to her undergone a punishment similar to ours? I do not know. In any case, she did for us whatever she could. It is true she could do very little, for she was very poor. But we felt when we were shut up in the convict prison that, outside, we had a devoted friend. She often brought us news, which we were very glad to hear, for nothing of the kind reached us. When I left the prison to be taken to another town, I had the opportunity of calling upon her and making her acquaintance. She lived in one of the suburbs, at the house of a near relation. Nastasia Ivanovna was neither old nor young, neither pretty nor ugly. It was difficult, impossible even, to know whether she was intelligent and well-bred. But in her actions could be seen infinite compassion, an irresistible desire to please, to solace, to be in some way agreeable. All this could be read in the sweetness of her smile. I passed an entire evening at her house, with other companions of my imprisonment. She looked us straight in the face, laughed when we laughed, did everything we asked her, in conversation was always of our opinion, and did her best in every way to entertain us. She gave us tea and various little delicacies. If she had been rich we felt sure she would have been pleased, if only to be able to entertain us better and offer for us some solid consolation. When we wished her "good-bye," she gave us each a present of a cardboard cigar-case as a souvenir. She had made them herself--Heaven knows how--with coloured paper, the paper with which school-boys' copy-books are covered. All round this cardboard cigar-case she had gummed, by way of ornamentation, a thin edge of gilt paper. "As you smoke, these cigar-cases will perhaps be of use to you," she said, as if excusing herself for making such a present. There are people who say, as I have read and heard, that a great love for one's neighbour is only a form of selfishness. What selfishness could there be in this? That I could never understand. Although I had not much money when I entered the convict prison, I could not nevertheless feel seriously annoyed with convicts who, immediately on my arrival, after having deceived me once, came to borrow of me a second, a third time, and even oftener. But I admitted frankly that what did annoy me was the thought that all these people, with their smiling knavery, must take me for a fool, and laugh at me just because I lent the money for the fifth time. It must have seemed to them that I was the dupe of their tricks and their deceit. If, on the contrary, I had refused them and sent them away, I am certain that they would have had much more respect for me. Still, though it vexed me very much, I could not refuse them. I was rather anxious during the first days to know what footing I should hold in the convict prison, and what rule of conduct I should follow with my companions. I felt and perfectly understood that the place being in every way new to me, I was walking in darkness, and it would be impossible for me to live for ten years in darkness. I decided to act frankly, according to the dictates of my conscience and my personal feeling. But I also knew that this decision might be very well in theory, and that I should, in practice, be governed by unforeseen events. Accordingly, in addition to all the petty annoyances caused to me by my confinement in the convict prison, one terrible anguish laid hold of me and tormented me more and more. "The dead-house!" I said to myself when night fell, and I looked from the threshold of our barracks at the prisoners just returned from their labours and walking about in the court-yard, from the kitchen to the barracks, and _vice versâ_. As I examined their movements and their physiognomies I endeavoured to guess what sort of men they were, and what their disposition might be. They lounged about in front of me, some with lowered brows, others full of gaiety--one of these expressions was seen on every convict's face--exchanged insults or talked on indifferent matters. Sometimes, too, they wandered about in solitude, occupied apparently with their own reflections; some of them with a worn-out, pathetic look, others with a conceited air of superiority. Yes, here, even here!--their cap balanced on the side of their head, their sheepskin coat picturesquely over the shoulder, insolence in their eyes and mockery on their lips. "Here is the world to which I am condemned, in which, in spite of myself, I must somehow live," I said to myself. I endeavoured to question Akim Akimitch, with whom I liked to take my tea, in order not to be alone, for I wanted to know something about the different convicts. In parenthesis I must say that the tea, at the beginning of my imprisonment, was almost my only food. Akim Akimitch never refused to take tea with me, and he himself heated our tin tea-urns, made in the convict prison and let out to me by M----. Akim Akimitch generally drank a glass of tea (he had glasses of his own) calmly and silently, then thanked me when he had finished, and at once went to work on my blanket; but he had not been able to tell me what I wanted to know, and did not even understand my desire to know the dispositions of the people surrounding me. He listened to me with a cunning smile which I have still before my eyes. No, I thought, I must find out for myself; it is useless to interrogate others. The fourth day, the convicts were drawn up in two ranks, early in the morning, in the court-yard before the guard-house, close to the prison gates. Before and behind them were soldiers with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets. The soldier has the right to fire on the convict if he tries to escape. But, on the other hand, he is answerable for his shot, if there was no absolute necessity for him to fire. The same thing applies to revolts. But who would think of openly taking to flight? The Engineer officer arrived accompanied by the so-called "conductor" and by some non-commissioned officers of the Line, together with sappers and soldiers told off to superintend the labours of the convicts. The roll was called. Then the convicts who were going to the tailors' workshop started first. These men worked inside the prison, and made clothes for all the inmates. The other exiles went into the outer workshops, until at last arrived the turn of the prisoners destined for field labour. I was of this number--there were altogether twenty of us. Behind the fortress on the frozen river were two barges belonging to the Government, which were not worth anything, but which had to be taken to pieces in order that the wood might not be lost. The wood was in itself all but valueless, for firewood can be bought in the town at a nominal price. The whole country is covered with forests. This work was given to us in order that we might not remain with our arms crossed. This was understood on both sides. Accordingly, we went to it apathetically; though just the contrary happened when work had to be done, which would be profitable, or when a fixed task was assigned to us. In this latter case, although prisoners were to derive no profit from their work, they tried to get it over as soon as possible, and took a pride in doing it quickly. When such work as I am speaking of had to be done as a matter of form, rather than because it was necessary, task work could not be asked for. We had to go on until the beating of the drum at eleven o'clock called back the convicts. The day was warm and foggy, the snow was on the point of melting. Our entire band walked towards the bank behind the fortress, shaking lightly their chains hid beneath their garments: the sound came forth clear and ringing. Two or three convicts went to get their tools from the dépôt. I walked on with the others. I had become a little animated, for I wanted to see and know in what this field labour consisted, to what sort of work I was condemned, and how I should do it for the first time in my life. I remember the smallest particulars. We met, as we were walking along, a townsman with a long beard, who stopped and slipped his hand into his pocket. A prisoner left our party, took off his cap and received alms--to the extent of five kopecks--then came back hurriedly towards us. The townsman made the sign of the cross and went his way. The five kopecks were spent the same morning in buying cakes of white bread which were shared equally among us. In my squad some were gloomy and taciturn, others indifferent and indolent. There were some who talked in an idle manner. One of these men was extremely gay, heaven knows why. He sang and danced as we went along, shaking and ringing his chains at each step. This fat and corpulent convict was the very one who, on the very day of my arrival during the general washing, had a quarrel with one of his companions about the water, and had ventured to compare him to some sort of bird. His name was Scuratoff. He finished by shouting out a lively song of which I remember the burden: They married me without my consent, When I was at the mill. Nothing was wanting but a balalaika [the Russian banjo]. His extraordinary good-humour was justly reproved by several of the prisoners, who were offended by it. "Listen to his hallooing," said one of the convicts, "though it doesn't become him." "The wolf has but one song; this Tuliak [inhabitant of Tula] is stealing it from him," said another, who could be recognised by his accent as a Little Russian. "Of course I am from Tula," replied Scuratoff; "but we don't stuff ourselves to bursting as you do in your Pultava." "Liar! what did you eat yourself? Bark shoes and cabbage soup?" "You talk as if the devil fed you on sweet almonds," broke in a third. "I admit, my friend, that I am an effeminate man," said Scuratoff with a gentle sigh, as though he were really reproaching himself for his effeminacy. "From my most tender infancy I was brought up in luxury, fed on plums and delicate cakes. My brothers even now have a large business at Moscow. They are wholesale dealers in the wind that blows; immensely rich men, as you may imagine." "And what did you sell?" "I was very successful, and when I received my first two hundred----" "Roubles? impossible!" interrupted one of the prisoners, struck with amazement at hearing of so large a sum. "No, my good fellow, not two hundred roubles, two hundred blows of the stick. Luka; I say Luka!" "Some have the right to call me Luka, but for you I am Luka Kouzmitch," replied rather ill-temperedly a small, feeble convict with a pointed nose. "The devil take you, you are really not worth speaking to; yet I wanted to be civil to you. But to continue my story; this is how it happened that I did not remain any longer at Moscow. I received my fifteen last strokes and was then sent off, and was at----" "But what were you sent for?" asked a convict who had been listening attentively. "Don't ask stupid questions. I was explaining to you how it was I did not make my fortune at Moscow; and yet how anxious I was to be rich, you could scarcely imagine how much." Many of the prisoners began to laugh. Scuratoff was one of those lively persons, full of animal spirits, who take a pleasure in amusing their graver companions, and who, as a matter of course, received no reward except insults. He belonged to a type of men, to whose characteristics I shall, perhaps, have to return. "And what a fellow he is now!" observed Luka Kouzmitch. "His clothes alone must be worth a hundred roubles." Scuratoff had the oldest and greasiest sheepskin that could be seen. It was mended in many different places with pieces that scarcely hung together. He looked at Luka attentively from head to foot. "It is my head, friend," he said, "my head that is worth money. When I took farewell of Moscow, I was half consoled, because my head was to make the journey on my shoulders. Farewell, Moscow, I shall never forget your free air, nor the tremendous flogging I got. As for my sheepskin, you are not obliged to look at it." "You would like me, perhaps, to look at your head?" "If it was really his own natural property, but it was given him in charity," cried Luka Kouzmitch. "It was a gift made to him at Tumen, when the convoy was passing through the town." "Scuratoff, had you a workshop?" "What workshop could he have? He was only a cobbler," said one of the convicts. "It is true," said Scuratoff, without noticing the caustic tone of the speaker. "I tried to mend boots, but I never got beyond a single pair." "And were you paid for them?" "Well, I found a fellow who certainly neither feared God nor honoured either his father or his mother, and as a punishment, Providence made him buy the work of my hands." The men around Scuratoff burst into a laugh. "I also worked once at the convict prison," continued Scuratoff, with imperturbable coolness. "I did up the boots of Stepan Fedoritch, the lieutenant." "And was he satisfied?" "No, my dear fellows, indeed he was not; he blackguarded me enough to last me for the rest of my life. He also pushed me from behind with his knee. What a rage he was in! Ah! my life has deceived me. I see no fun in the convict prison whatever." He began to sing again. Akolina's husband is in the court-yard. There he waits. Again he sang, and again he danced and leaped. "Most unbecoming!" murmured the Little Russian, who was walking by my side. "Frivolous man!" said another in a serious, decided tone. I could not make out why they insulted Scuratoff, nor why they despised those convicts who were light-hearted, as they seemed to do. I attributed the anger of the Little Russian and the others to a feeling of personal hostility, but in this I was wrong. They were vexed that Scuratoff had not that puffed-up air of false dignity with which the whole of the convict prison was impregnated. They did not, however, get annoyed with all the jokers, nor treat them all like Scuratoff. Some of them were men who would stand no nonsense, and forgive no one voluntarily or involuntarily. It was necessary to treat them with respect. There was in our band a convict of this very kind, a good-natured, lively fellow, whom I did not see in his true light until later on. He was a tall young fellow, with pleasant manners, and not without good looks. There was at the same time a very comic expression on his face. He was called the Sapper, because he had served in the Engineers. He belonged to the special section. But all the serious-minded convicts were not so particular as the Little Russian, who could not bear to see people gay. We had in our prison several men who aimed at a certain pre-eminence, either in virtue of skill at their work, of their general ingenuity, of their character, or their wit. Many of them were intelligent and energetic, and reached the point they were aiming at--pre-eminence, that is to say, and moral influence over their companions. They often hated one another, and they excited general envy. They looked upon other convicts with a dignified air, that was full of condescension; and they never quarrelled without a cause. Favourably looked upon by the administration, they in some measure directed the work, and none of them would have lowered himself so far as to quarrel with a man about his songs. All these men were very polite to me during the whole time of my imprisonment, but not at all communicative. At last we reached the bank; a little lower down was the old hulk, which we were to break up, stuck fast in the ice. On the other side of the water was the blue steppe and the sad horizon. I expected to see every one go to work at once. Nothing of the kind. Some of the convicts sat down negligently on wooden beams that were lying near the shore, and nearly all took from their pockets pouches containing native tobacco--which was sold in leaf at the market at the rate of three kopecks a pound--and short wooden pipes. They lighted them while the soldiers formed a circle around them, and began to watch us with a tired look. "Who the devil had the idea of sinking this barque?" asked one of the convicts in a loud voice, without speaking to any one in particular. "Were they very anxious, then, to have it broken up?" "The people were not afraid to give us work," said another. "Where are all those peasants going to work?" said the first, after a short silence. He had not even heard his companion's answer. He pointed with his finger to the distance, where a troop of peasants were marching in file across the virgin snow. All the convicts turned negligently towards this side, and began from mere idleness to laugh at the peasants as they approached them. One of them, the last of the line, walked very comically with his arms apart, and his head on one side. He wore a tall pointed cap. His shadow threw itself in clear lines on the white snow. "Look how our brother Petrovitch is dressed," said one of my companions, imitating the pronunciation of the peasants of the locality. One amusing thing--the convicts looked down on peasants, although they were for the most part peasants by origin. "The last one, too, above all, looks as if he were planting radishes." "He is an important personage, he has lots of money," said a third. They all began to laugh without, however, seeming genuinely amused. During this time a woman selling cakes came up. She was a brisk, lively person, and it was with her that the five kopecks given by the townsman were spent. The young fellow who sold white bread in the convict prison took two dozen of her cakes, and had a long discussion with the woman in order to get a reduction in price. She would not, however, agree to his terms. At last the non-commissioned officer appointed to superintend the work came up with a cane in his hand. "What are you sitting down for? Begin at once." "Give us our tasks, Ivan Matveitch," said one of the "foremen" among us, as he slowly got up. "What more do you want? Take out the barque, that is your task." Then ultimately the convicts got up and went to the river, but very slowly. Different "directors" appeared, "directors," at least, in words. The barque was not to be broken up anyhow. The latitudinal and longitudinal beams were to be preserved, and this was not an easy thing to manage. "Draw this beam out, that is the first thing to do," cried a convict who was neither a director nor a foreman, but a simple workman. This man, very quiet and a little stupid, had not previously spoken. He now bent down, took hold of a heavy beam with both hands, and waited for some one to help him. No one, however, seemed inclined to do so. "Not you, indeed, you will never manage it; not even your grandfather, the bear, could do it," muttered some one between his teeth. "Well, my friend, are we to begin? As for me, I can do nothing alone," said, with a morose air, the man who had put himself forward, and who now, quitting the beam, held himself upright. "Unless you are going to do all the work by yourself, what are you in such a hurry about?" "I was only speaking," said the poor fellow, excusing himself for his forwardness. "Must you have blankets to keep yourselves warm, or are you to be heated for the winter?" cried a non-commissioned officer to the twenty men who seemed to loathe to begin work. "Go on at once." "It is never any use being in a hurry, Ivan Matveitch." "But you are doing nothing at all, Savelieff. What are you casting your eyes about for? Are they for sale, by chance? Come, go on." "What can I do alone?" "Set us tasks, Ivan Matveitch." "I told you before that I had no task to give you. Attack the barque, and when you have finished we will go back to the house. Come, begin." The prisoners began work, but with no good-will, and very indolently. The irritation of the chief at seeing these vigorous men remain so idle was intelligible enough. While the first rivet was being removed it suddenly snapped. "It broke to pieces," said the convict in self-justification. It was impossible, then, they suggested, to work in such a manner. What was to be done? A long discussion took place between the prisoners, and little by little they came to insults; nor did this seem likely to be the end of it. The under officer cried out again as he agitated his stick, but the second rivet snapped like the first. It was then agreed that hatchets were of no use, and that other tools must be procured. Accordingly, two prisoners were sent under escort to the fortress to get the proper instruments. Waiting their return, the other convicts sat down on the bank as calmly as possible, pulled out their pipes and began again to smoke. Finally, the under officer spat with contempt. "Well," he exclaimed, "the work you are doing will not kill you. Oh, what people, what people!" he grumbled, with an ill-natured air. He then made a gesture, and went away to the fortress, brandishing his cane. After an hour the "conductor" arrived. He listened quietly to what the convicts had to say, declared that the task he gave them was to get off four rivets unbroken, and to demolish a good part of the barque. As soon as this was done the prisoners could go back to the house. The task was a considerable one, but, good heavens! how the convicts now went to work! Where now was their idleness, their want of skill? The hatchets soon began to dance, and soon the rivets were sprung. Those who had no hatchets made use of thick sticks to push beneath the rivets, and thus in due time and in artistic fashion, they got them out. The convicts seemed suddenly to have become intelligent in their conversation. No more insults were heard. Every one knew perfectly what to say, to do, to advise. Just half-an-hour before the beating of the drum, the appointed task was executed, and the prisoners returned to the convict prison fatigued, but pleased to have gained half-an-hour from the working time fixed by the regulations. As regards myself, I have only one thing to say. Wherever I stood to help the workers I was never in my place; they always drove me away, and generally insulted me. Any one of the ragged lot, any miserable workman who would not have dared to say a syllable to the other convicts, all more intelligent and skilful than he, assumed the right of swearing at me if I went near him, under pretext that I interfered with him in his work. At last one of the best of them said to me frankly, but coarsely: "What do you want here? Be off with you! Why do you come when no one calls you?" "That is it," added another. "You would do better to take a pitcher," said a third, "and carry water to the house that is being built, or go to the tobacco factory. You are no good here." I was obliged to keep apart. To remain idle while others were working seemed a shame; but when I went to the other end of the barque I was insulted anew. "What men we have to work!" was the cry. "What can be done with fellows of this kind?" All this was said spitefully. They were pleased to have the opportunity of laughing at a gentleman. It will now be understood that my first thought on entering the convict prison was to ask myself how I should ever get on with such people. I foresaw that such incidents would often be repeated; but I resolved not to change my conduct in any way, whatever might be the result. I had decided to live simply and intelligently, without manifesting the least desire to approach my companions; but also without repelling them, if they themselves desired to approach me; in no way to fear their threats or their hatred; and to pretend as much as possible not to be affected by them. Such was my plan. I saw from the first that they would despise me, if I adopted any other course. When I returned in the evening to the convict prison, having finished my afternoon's work, fatigued and harassed, a deep sadness took possession of me. "How many thousands of days have I to pass like this one?" Always the same thought. I walked about alone and meditated as night fell, when, suddenly, near the palisade behind the barracks, I saw my friend, Bull, who ran towards me. Bull was the dog of the prison; for the prison has its dog as companies of infantry, batteries of artillery, and squadrons of cavalry have theirs. He had been there for a long time, belonged to no one, looked upon every one as his master, and lived on the remains from the kitchen. He was a good-sized black dog, spotted with white, not very old, with intelligent eyes, and a bushy tail. No one caressed him or paid the least attention to him. As soon as I arrived I made friends with him by giving him a piece of bread. When I patted him on the back he remained motionless, looked at me with a pleased expression, and gently wagged his tail. That evening, not having seen me the whole day--me, the first person who in so many years had thought of caressing him--he ran towards me, leaping and barking. It had such an effect on me that I could not help embracing him. I placed his head against my body. He placed his paws on my shoulders and looked me in the face. "Here is a friend sent to me by destiny," I said to myself, and during the first weeks, so full of pain, every time that I came back from work I hastened, before doing anything else, to go to the back of the barracks with Bull, who leaped with joy before me. I took his head in my hands and kissed it. At the same time a troubled, bitter feeling pressed my heart. I well remember thinking--and taking pleasure in the thought--that this was my one, my only friend in the world--my faithful dog, Bull. CHAPTER VIII. NEW ACQUAINTANCES--PETROFF Time went on, and little by little I accustomed myself to my new life. The scenes I had daily before me no longer afflicted me so much. In a word, the convict prison, its inhabitants, and its manners, left me indifferent. To get reconciled to this life was impossible, but I had to accept it as an inevitable fact. I had driven entirely away from me all the anxiety by which I had at first been troubled. I no longer wandered through the convict prison like a lost soul, and no longer allowed myself to be subjugated by my anxiety. The wild curiosity of the convicts had had its edge taken off, and I was no longer looked upon with that affectation or insolence previously displayed. They had become indifferent to me, and I was very glad of it. I began to feel at home in the barracks. I knew where to go and sleep at night; gradually I became accustomed to things the very idea of which would formerly have been repugnant to me. I went every week regularly to have my head shaved. We were called every Saturday one after another to the guard-house. The regimental barbers lathered our skulls with cold water and soap, and scraped us afterwards with their saw-like razors. Merely the thought of this torture gives me a shudder. I soon found a remedy for it--Akim Akimitch pointed it out to me--a prisoner in the military section who for one kopeck shaved those who paid for it with his own razor. This was his trade. Many of the prisoners were his customers merely to avoid the military barbers, yet these were not men of weak nerves. Our barber was called the "major," why, I cannot say. As far as I know he possessed no points of resemblance with any major. As I write these lines I see clearly before me the "major" and his thin face. He was a tall fellow, silent, rather stupid, absorbed entirely by his business; he was never to be seen without a strop in his hand, on which day and night he sharpened a razor, which was always in admirable condition. He had certainly made this work the supreme object of his life; he was really happy when his razor was quite sharp and his services were in request; his soap was always warm, and he had a very light hand--a hand of velvet. He was proud of his skill, and used to take with a careless air the kopeck he received; one might have thought that he worked from love of his art, and not in order to gain money. A----f was soundly corrected by our real Major one day, because he had the misfortune to say the "major" when he was speaking of the barber who shaved him. The real Major was in a violent rage. "Blackguard," he cried, "do you know what a major is?" and according to his habit he shook A----f violently. "The idea of calling a scoundrel of a convict a 'major' in my presence." From the first day of my imprisonment I began to dream of my liberation. My favourite occupation was to count thousands and thousands of times in a thousand different manners the number of days that I should have to pass in prison. I thought of that only, and every one deprived of his liberty for a fixed time does the same; of that I am certain. I cannot say that all the convicts had the same degree of hopefulness, but their sanguine character often astonished me. The hopefulness of a prisoner differs essentially from that of a free man. The latter may desire an amelioration in his position, or a realisation of some enterprise which he has undertaken, but meanwhile he lives, he acts; he is swept away in the whirlwind of real life. Nothing of the kind takes place in the case of the convict for life. He lives also in a way, but not being condemned to a fixed number of years, he takes a vaguer view of his situation than the one who is imprisoned for a definite term. The man condemned for a comparatively short period feels that he is not at home; he looks upon himself, so to say, as on a visit; he regards the twenty years of his punishment as two years at most; he is sure that at fifty, when he has finished his sentence, he will be as young and as lively as at thirty-five. "We have time before us," he thinks, and he strives obstinately to dispel discouraging thoughts. Even a man sentenced for life thinks that some day an order may arrive from St. Petersburg--"Transport such a one to the mines at Nertchinsk and fix a term for his detention." It would be famous, first because it takes six months to get to Nertchinsk, and the life on the road is a hundred times preferable to the convict prison. He would finish his time at Nertchinsk, and then--more than one gray-haired old man speculates in this way. At Tobolsk I have seen men fastened to the wall by a chain about two yards long; by their side they have their bed. They are thus chained for some terrible crime committed after their transportation to Siberia; they are kept chained up for five, ten years. They are nearly all brigands, and I only saw one of them who looked like a man of good breeding; he had been in some branch of the Civil Service, and spoke in a soft, lisping way; his smile was sweet but sickly; he showed us his chain, and pointed out to us the most convenient way of lying down. He must have been a nice person! All these poor wretches are perfectly well-behaved; they all seem satisfied, and yet their desire to finish their period of chains devours them. Why? it will be asked. Because then they will leave their low, damp, stifling cells for the court-yard of the convict prison, that is all. These last places of confinement they will never leave; they know that those who have once been chained up will never be liberated, and they will die in irons. They know all this, and yet they are very anxious to be no longer chained up. Without this hope could they remain five or six years fastened to a wall, and not die or go mad? I soon understood that work alone could save me, by fortifying my health and my body, whereas incessant restlessness of mind, nervous irritation, and the close air of the barracks would ruin them completely. I should go out vigorous and full of elasticity. I did not deceive myself, work and movement were very useful to me. I saw one of my comrades, to my terror, melt away like a piece of wax; and yet, when he was with me in the convict prison, he was young, handsome, and vigorous; when he left his health was ruined, and his legs could no longer support him. His chest, too, was oppressed by asthma. "No," I said to myself, as I gazed upon him; "I wish to live, and I will live." My love for work exposed me in the first place to the contempt and bitter laughter of my comrades; but I paid no attention to them, and went away with a light heart wherever I was sent. Sometimes, for instance, to break and pound alabaster. This work, the first that was given to me, is easy. The engineers did their utmost to lighten the task-work of all the gentlemen; this was not indulgence, but simple justice. Would it not have been strange to require the same work from a labourer as from a man whose strength was less by half, and who had never worked with his hands? But we were not "spoilt" in this way for ever, and we were only spared in secret, for we were severely watched. As real severe work was by no means rare, it often happened that the task given to us was beyond the strength of the gentlemen, who thus suffered twice as much as their comrades. Generally three or four men were sent to pound the alabaster, and nearly always old men or feeble ones were chosen. We were of the latter class. A man skilled in this particular kind of work was sent with us. For several years it was always the same man, Almazoff by name. He was severe, already in years, sunburnt, and very thin, by no means communicative, moreover, and difficult to get on with. He despised us profoundly; but he was of such a reserved disposition that he never broke it sufficient to call us names. The shed in which we calcined the alabaster was built on a sloping and deserted bank of the river. In winter, on a foggy day, the view was sad, both on the river and on the opposite shore, even to a great distance. There was something heartrending in this dull, naked landscape, but it was still sadder when a brilliant sun shone above the boundless white plain. How one would have liked to fly away beyond this steppe, which began on the opposite shore and stretched out for fifteen hundred versts to the south like an immense table-cloth. Almazoff went to work silently, with a disagreeable air. We were ashamed not to be able to help him more effectually, but he managed to do his work without our assistance, and seemed to wish to make us understand that we were acting unjustly towards him, and that we ought to repent our uselessness. Our work consisted in heating the oven in order to calcine the alabaster that we had got together in a heap. The day following, when the alabaster was entirely calcined, we turned it out. Each one filled a box of alabaster, which he afterwards crushed. This work was not disagreeable. The fragile alabaster soon became a white, brilliant dust. We brandished our heavy hammers, and dealt such formidable blows, that we admired our own strength. When we were tired we felt lighter, our cheeks were red, the blood circulated more rapidly in our veins. Almazoff would then look at us in a condescending manner, as he would have looked at little children. He smoked his pipe with an indulgent air, unable, however, to prevent himself from grumbling. When he opened his mouth he was never otherwise, and he was the same with every one. At bottom I believe he was a kind man. They gave me another kind of labour, which consisted in working the turning wheel. This wheel was high and heavy, and great efforts were necessary to make it go round, above all when the workmen from the workshop of the engineers used to make the balustrade of a staircase or the foot of a large table, which required almost the whole trunk. No one man could have done the work alone. To two convicts, B---- (formerly gentleman) and myself, this work was given nearly always for several years, whenever there was anything to turn. B---- was weak, even still young, and somewhat sympathetic. He had been sent to prison a year before me, with two companions who were also of noble birth. One of them, an old man, used to pray day and night. The prisoners respected him greatly for it. He died in prison. The other one was quite a young man, fresh-coloured, strong, and courageous. He had carried his companion B---- for several hundred versts, seeing that at the end of the first half-stage he had fallen down from fatigue. Their friendship for one another was something to see. B---- was a perfectly well-bred man, of noble and generous disposition, but spoiled and irritated by illness. We used to turn the wheel well together, and the work interested us. As for me, I found the exercise most salutary. I was very--too--fond of shovelling away the snow, which we generally did after the hurricanes, so frequent in the winter. When the hurricane had been raging for an entire day, more than one house would be buried up to the windows, even if it was not covered over entirely. The hurricane ceased, the sun reappeared, and we were ordered to disengage the houses, barricaded as they were by heaps of snow. We were sent in large bands, sometimes the whole of the convicts together. Each of us received a shovel and had an appointed task to do, which it sometimes seemed impossible to get through. But we all went to work with a good-will. The light dust-like snow had not yet congealed, and was frozen only on the surface. We removed it in enormous shovelfuls, which were dispersed around us. In the air the snow-dust was as brilliant as diamonds. The shovel sank easily into the white glittering mass. The convicts did this work almost always with gaiety, the cold winter air and the exercise animated them. Every one felt himself in better spirits, laughter and jokes were heard, snowballs were exchanged, which after a time excited the indignation of the serious-minded convicts, who liked neither laughter nor gaiety. Accordingly these scenes finished almost always in showers of insults. Little by little the circle of my acquaintances increased, although I never thought of making new ones. I was always restless, morose, and mistrustful. Acquaintances, however, were made involuntarily. The first who came to visit me was the convict Petroff. I say visit, and I retain the word, for he lived in the special division which was at the farthest end of the barracks from mine. It seemed as if no relations could exist between him and me, for we had nothing in common. Nevertheless, during the first period of my stay, Petroff thought it his duty to come towards me nearly every day, or at least to stop me when, after work, I went for a stroll at the back of the barracks as far as possible from observation. His persistence was disagreeable to me; but he managed so well that his visits became at last a pleasing diversion, although he was by no means of a communicative disposition. He was short, strongly built, agile, and skilful. He had rather an agreeable voice, and high cheek-bones, a bold look, and white, regular teeth. He had always a quid of tobacco in his mouth between the lower lip and the gums. Many of the convicts had the habit of chewing. He seemed to me younger than he really was, for he did not appear to be more than thirty, and he was really forty. He spoke to me without any ceremony, and behaved to me on a footing of equality with civility and attention. If, for instance, he saw that I wished to be alone, he would talk to me for about two minutes and then go away. He thanked me, moreover, each time for my kindness in conversing with him, which he never did to any one else. I must add that his relations underwent no change not only during the first period of my story, but for several years, and that they never became more intimate, although he was really my friend. I never could say exactly what he looked for in my society, nor why he came every day to see me. He robbed me sometimes, but almost involuntarily. He never came to me to borrow money; so that what attracted him was not personal interest. It seemed to me, I know not why, that this man did not live in the same prison with me, but in another house in the town, far away. It appeared as though he had come to the convict prison by chance in order to pick up news, to inquire for me, in short, to see how I was getting on. He was always in a hurry, as though he had left some one for a moment who was waiting for him, or as if he had given up for a time some matter of business. And yet he never hurried himself. His look was strongly fixed, with a slight air of levity and irony. He had a habit of looking into the distance above the objects near him, as though he were endeavouring to distinguish something behind the person to whom he was talking. He always seemed absent-minded. I sometimes asked myself where he went when he left me, where could Petroff be so anxiously expected? He would simply go with a light step to one of the barracks or to the kitchen, and sit down to hear the conversation. He listened attentively, and joined in with animation; after which he would suddenly become silent. But whether he spoke or kept silent, one could always see on his countenance that he had business somewhere else, and that some one was waiting for him in the town, not very far away. The most astonishing thing was that he never had any business--apart, of course, from the hard labour assigned to him. He knew no trade, and had scarcely ever any money. But that did not seem to grieve him. Why did he speak to me? His conversation was as strange as he himself was singular. When he noticed that I was walking alone at the back of the barracks he made a stand, and turned towards me. He walked very fast, and when I turned he was suddenly on his heel. He approached me walking, but so quickly that he seemed to be going at a run. "Good-morning." "Good-morning." "I am not disturbing you?" "No." "I wish to ask you something about Napoleon. I wanted to ask you if he is not a relation of the one who came to us in the year 1812." Petroff was a soldier's son, and knew how to read and write. "Of course he is." "People say he is President. What President--and of what?" His questions were always rapid and abrupt, as though he wished to know as soon as possible what he asked. I explained to him of what Napoleon was President, and I added that perhaps he would become Emperor. "How will that be?" I explained it to him as well as I could; Petroff listened with attention. He understood perfectly all I told him, and added, as he leant his ear towards me: "Hem! Ah, I wished to ask you, Alexander Petrovitch, if there are really monkeys who have hands instead of feet, and are as tall as a man?" "Yes." "What are they like?" I described them to him, and told him what I knew on the subject. "And where do they live?" "In warm climates. There are some to be found in the island of Sumatra." "Is that in America? I have heard that people there walk with their heads downwards." "No, no; you are thinking of the Antipodes." I explained to him as well as I could what America was, and what the Antipodes. He listened to me as attentively as if the question of the Antipodes had alone caused him to approach me. "Ah, ah! I read last year the story of the Countess de la Vallière. Arevieff had bought this book from the Adjutant. Is it true or is it an invention? The work is by Dumas." "It is an invention, no doubt." "Ah, indeed. Good-bye. I am much obliged to you." And Petroff disappeared. The above may be taken as a specimen of our ordinary conversation. I made inquiries about him. M---- thought he had better speak to me on the subject, when he learnt what an acquaintance I had made. He told me that many convicts had excited his horror on their arrival; but not one of them, not even Gazin, had produced upon him such a frightful impression as this Petroff. "He is the most resolute, most to be feared of all the convicts," said M----. "He is capable of anything, nothing stops him if he has a caprice. He will assassinate you, if the fancy takes him, without hesitation and without the least remorse. I often think he is not in his right senses." This declaration interested me extremely; but M---- was never able to tell me why he had such an opinion of Petroff. Strangely enough, for many years together I saw this man and talked with him nearly every day. He was always my sincere friend, though I could not at the time tell why, and during the whole time he lived very quietly, and did nothing extreme. I am moreover convinced that M---- was right, and that he was perhaps a most intrepid man and the most difficult to restrain in the whole prison. And why so, I can scarcely explain. This Petroff was that very convict who, when he was called up to receive his punishment, had wished to kill the Major. I have told you the latter was saved by a miracle--that he had gone away one minute before the punishment was inflicted. Once when he was still a soldier--before his arrival at the convict prison--his Colonel had struck him on parade. Probably he had often been beaten before, but that day he was not in a humour to bear an insult, in open day, before the battalion drawn up in line. He killed his Colonel. I don't know all the details of the story, for he never told it to me himself. It must be understood that these explosions only took place when the nature within him spoke too loudly, and these occasions were rare; as a rule he was serious and even quiet. His strong, ardent passions were not burnt out, but smouldering, like burning coals beneath ashes. I never noticed that he was vain, or given to bragging like so many other convicts. He hardly ever quarrelled, but he was on friendly relations with scarcely any one, except, perhaps, Sirotkin, and then only when he had need of him. I saw him, however, one day seriously irritated. Some one had offended him by refusing him something he wanted. He was disputing on the point with a tall convict, as vigorous as an athlete, named Vassili Antonoff, known for his nagging, spiteful disposition. The man, however, who belonged to the class of civil convicts, was far from being a coward. They shouted at one another for some time, and I thought the quarrel would finish like so many others of the same kind, by simple interchange of abuse. The affair took an unexpected turn. Petroff only suddenly turned pale, his lips trembled, and turned blue, his respiration became difficult. He got up, and slowly, very slowly, and with imperceptible steps--he liked to walk about with his feet naked--approached Antonoff; at once the noise of shouting gave place to a death-like silence--a fly passing through the air might have been heard--every one anxiously awaited the event. Antonoff pointed to his adversary. His face was no longer human. I was unable to endure the scene, and I left the prison. I was certain that before I got to the staircase I should hear the shrieks of a man who was being murdered; but nothing of the kind took place. Before Petroff had succeeded in getting up to Antonoff, the latter threw him the object which had caused the quarrel--a miserable rag, a worn-out piece of lining. Of course afterwards, Antonoff did not fail to call Petroff names, merely as a matter of conscience, and from a feeling of what was right, in order to show that he had not been too much afraid; but Petroff paid no attention to his insults, he did not even answer him. Everything had ended to his advantage, and the insults scarcely affected him; he was glad to have got his piece of rag. A quarter of an hour later he was strolling about the barracks quite unoccupied, looking for some group whose conversation might possibly gratify his curiosity. Everything seemed to interest him, and yet he remained apparently indifferent to all he heard. He might have been compared to a workman, a vigorous workman, whom the work fears; but who, for the moment, has nothing to do, and condescends meanwhile to put out his strength in playing with his children. I did not understand why he remained in prison, why he did not escape. He would not have hesitated to get away if he had really desired to do so. Reason has no power on people like Petroff unless they are spurred on by will. When they desire something there are no obstacles in their way. I am certain that he would have been clever enough to escape, that he would have deceived every one, that he would have remained for a time without eating, hid in a forest, or in the bulrushes of the river; but the idea had evidently not occurred to him. I never noticed in him much judgment or good sense. People like him are born with one idea, which, without being aware of it, pursues them all their life. They wander until they meet with some object which apparently excites their desire, and then they do not mind risking their head. I was sometimes astonished that a man who had assassinated his Colonel for having been struck, would lie down without opposition beneath the rods, for he was always flogged when he was detected introducing spirits into the prison. Like all those who had no settled occupation, he smuggled in spirits; then, if caught, he would allow himself to be whipped as though he consented to the punishment, and confessed himself in the wrong. Otherwise they would have killed him rather than make him lie down. More than once I was astonished to see that he was robbing me in spite of his affection for me; but he did so from time to time. Thus he stole my Bible, which I had asked him to carry to its place. He had only a few steps to go; but on his way he met with a purchaser, to whom he sold the book, at once spending the money he had received on vodka. Probably he felt that day a violent desire for drink, and when he desired something it was necessary that he should have it. A man like Petroff will assassinate any one for twenty-five kopecks, simply to get himself a pint of vodka. On any other occasion he will disdain hundreds and thousands of roubles. He told me the same evening of the theft he had committed, but without showing the least sign of repentance or confusion, in a perfectly indifferent tone, as though he were speaking of an ordinary incident. I endeavoured to reprove him as he deserved, for I regretted the loss of my Bible. He listened to me without hesitation very calmly. He agreed that the Bible was a very useful book, and sincerely regretted that I had it no longer; but he was not for one moment sorry, though he had stolen it. He looked at me with such assurance that I gave up scolding him. He bore my reproaches because he thought I could not do otherwise than I was doing. He knew that he ought to be punished for such an action, and consequently thought I ought to abuse him for my own satisfaction, and to console myself for my loss. But in his inner heart he considered that it was all nonsense, to which a serious man ought to be ashamed to descend. I believe even that he looked upon me as a child, an infant, who does not yet understand the simplest things in the world. If I spoke to him of anything, except books and matters of knowledge, he would answer me, but only from politeness, and in laconic phrases. I wondered what made him question me so much on the subject of books. I looked at him carefully during our conversation to assure myself that he was not laughing at me; but no, he listened seriously, and with an attention which was genuine, though not always maintained. This latter circumstance irritated me sometimes. The questions he put to me were clear and precise, and he always seemed prepared for the answer. He had made up his mind once for all that it was no use speaking to me as to other matters, and that, apart from books, I understood nothing. I am certain that he was attached to me, and much that fact astonished me; but he looked upon me as a child, or as an imperfect man. He felt for me that sort of compassion which every stronger being feels for a weaker; he took me for--I do not know what he took me for. Although this compassion did not prevent him from robbing me, I am sure that in doing so he pitied me. "What a strange person!" he must have said to himself, as he lay hands on my property; "he does not even know how to take care of what he possesses." That, I think, is why he liked me. One day he said to me as if involuntarily: "You are too good-natured, you are so simple, so simple that one cannot help pitying you. Do not be offended at what I was saying to you, Alexander Petrovitch," he added a minute afterwards, "it is not ill-meant." People like Petroff will sometimes, in times of trouble and excitement, manifest themselves in a forcible manner; then they find the kind of activity which suits them; they are not men of words; they could not be instigators and chiefs of insurrections, but they are the men who execute and act; they act simply without any fuss, and run just to throw themselves against an obstacle with bared breast, neither thinking nor fearing. Every one follows them to the foot of the wall, where they generally leave their life. I do not think Petroff can have ended well, he was marked for a violent end; and if he is not yet dead, that only means that the opportunity has not yet presented itself. Who knows, however? He will, perhaps, die of extreme old age, quite quietly, after having wandered through life, here and there, without an object; but I believe M---- was right, and that Petroff was the most determined man in the whole convict prison. CHAPTER IX. MEN OF DETERMINATION--LUKA It is difficult to speak of these men of determination. In the convict prison, as elsewhere, they are rare. They can be known by the fear they inspire; people beware of them. An irresistible feeling urged me first of all to turn away from them, but I afterwards changed my point of view, even in regard to the most frightful murderers. There are men who have never killed any one, and who, nevertheless, are more atrocious than those who have assassinated six persons. It is impossible to form an idea of certain crimes, of so strange a nature are they. A type of murderers that one often meets with is the following: A man lives calmly and peacefully. His fate is a hard one, but he puts up with it. He is a peasant attached to the soil, a domestic serf, a shopkeeper, or a soldier. Suddenly he finds something give way within him; what he has hitherto suffered he can bear no longer, and he plunges his knife into the breast of his oppressor or his enemy. He then goes beyond all measure. He has killed his oppressor, his enemy. That can be understood--there was cause for that crime; but afterwards he does not assassinate his enemies alone, but the first person he happens to meet he kills for the pleasure of killing--for an abusive word, for a look, to make an equal number, or only because some one is standing in his way. He behaves like a drunken man--a man in a delirium. When once he has passed the fatal line, he is himself astonished to find that nothing sacred exists for him. He breaks through all laws, defies all powers, and gives himself boundless license. He enjoys the agitation of his own heart and the terror that he inspires. He knows all the same that a frightful punishment awaits him. His sensations are probably like those of a man who, looking down from a high tower on to the abyss yawning at his feet, would be happy to throw himself head first into it in order to bring everything to an end. That is what happens with even the most quiet, the most commonplace individuals. There are some even who give themselves airs in this extremity. The more they were quiet, self-effacing before, the more they now swagger and seek to inspire fear. The desperate men enjoy the horror they cause; they take pleasure in the disgust they excite; they perform acts of madness from despair, and care nothing how it must all end, or seem impatient that it should end as soon as possible. The most curious thing is that their excitement, their exaltation, will last until the pillory. After that the thread is cut, the moment is fatal, and the man becomes suddenly calm, or, rather, he becomes extinct, a thing without feeling. In the pillory all his strength fails him, and he begs pardon of the people. Once at the convict prison, he is quite different. No one would ever imagine that this white-livered chicken had killed five or six men. There are some men whom the convict prison does not easily subdue. They preserve a certain swagger, a spirit of bravado. "I say, I am not what you take me for; I have sent six fellows out of the world," you will hear them boast; but sooner or later they have all to submit. From time to time, the murderer will amuse himself by recalling his audacity, his lawlessness when he was in a state of despair. He likes at these moments to have some silly fellow before whom he can brag, and to whom he will relate his heroic deeds, by pretending not to have the least wish to astonish him. "That is the sort of man I am," he says. And with what a refinement of prudent conceit he watches him while he is delivering his narrative! In his accent, in every word, this can be perceived. Where did he acquire this particular kind of artfulness? During the long evening of one of the first days of my confinement, I was listening to one of these conversations. Thanks to my inexperience I took the narrator for the malefactor, a man with an iron character, a man to whom Petroff was nothing. The narrator, Luka Kouzmitch, had "knocked over" a Major, for no other reason but that it pleased him to do so. This Luka Kouzmitch was the smallest and thinnest man in all the barracks. He was from the South. He had been a serf, one of those not attached to the soil, but who serve their masters as domestics. There was something cutting and haughty in his demeanour. He was a little bird, but had a beak and nails. The convicts sum up a man instinctively. They thought nothing of this one, he was too susceptible and too full of conceit. That evening he was stitching a shirt, seated on his camp-bedstead. Close to him was a narrow-minded, stupid, but good-natured and obliging fellow, a sort of Colossus, Kobylin by name. Luka often quarrelled with him in a neighbourly way, and treated him with a haughtiness which, thanks to his good-nature, Kobylin did not notice in the least. He was knitting a stocking, and listening to Luka with an indifferent air. Luka spoke in a loud voice and very distinctly. He wished every one to hear him, though he was apparently speaking only to Kobylin. "I was sent away," said Luka, sticking his needle in the shirt, "as a brigand." "How long ago?" asked Kobylin. "When the peas are ripe it will be just a year. Well, we got to K----v, and I was put into the convict prison. Around me there were a dozen men from Little Russia, well-built, solid, robust fellows, like oxen, and how quiet! The food was bad, the Major of the prison did what he liked. One day passed, then another, and I soon saw that all these fellows were cowards. "'You are afraid of such an idiot?' I said to them. "'Go and talk to him yourself,' and they burst out laughing like brutes that they were. I held my tongue. "There was one fellow so droll, so droll," added the narrator, now leaving Kobylin to address all who chose to listen. "This droll fellow was telling them how he had been tried, what he had said, and how he had wept with hot tears. "'There was a dog of a clerk there,' he said, 'who did nothing but write and take down every word I said. I told him I wished him at the devil, and he actually wrote that down. He troubled me so, that I quite lost my head.'" "Give me some thread, Vasili; the house thread is bad, rotten." "There is some from the tailor's shop," replied Vasili, handing it over to him. "Well, but about this Major?" said Kobylin, who had been quite forgotten. Luka was only waiting for that. He did not go on at once with his story, as though Kobylin were not worth such a mark of attention. He threaded his needle quietly, bent his legs lazily beneath him, and at last continued as follows: "I excited the fellows to such an extent that they all called out against the Major. That same morning I had borrowed the 'rascal' [prison slang for knife] from my neighbour, and had hid it, so as to be ready for anything. When the Major arrived, he was as furious as a madman. 'Come now, you Little Russians,' I whispered to them, 'this is not the time for fear.' But, dear me, all their courage had slipped down to the soles of their feet, they trembled! The Major came in, he was quite drunk. "'What is this, how do you dare? I am your Tzar, your God,' he cried. "When he said that he was the Tzar and God, I went up to him with my knife in my sleeve. "'No,' I said to him, 'your high nobility,' and I got nearer and nearer to him, 'that cannot be. Your "high nobility" cannot be our Tzar and our God.' "'Ah, you are the man, it is you,' cried the Major; 'you are the leader of them.' "'No,' I answered, and I got still nearer to him; 'no, your "high nobility," as every one knows, and as you yourself know, the all-powerful God present everywhere is alone in heaven. And we have only one Tzar placed above every one else by God himself. He is our monarch, your "high nobility." And, your "high nobility," you are as yet only Major, and you are our chief only by the grace of the Tzar, and by your merits.' "'How? how? how?' stammered the Major. He could not speak, so astounded was he. "This is how I answered, and I threw myself upon him and thrust my knife into his belly up to the hilt. It had been done very quickly; the Major tottered, turned, and fell. "I had thrown my life away. "'Now, you fellows,' I cried, 'it is for you to pick him up.'" I will here make a digression from my narrative. The expression, "I am the Tzar! I am God!" and other similar ones were once, unfortunately, too often employed in the good old times by many commanders. I must admit that their number has seriously diminished, and perhaps even the last has already disappeared. Let me observe that those who spoke in this way were, above all, men promoted from the ranks. The grade of officer had turned their brain upside down. After having laboured long years beneath the knapsack, they suddenly found themselves officers, commanders, and nobles above all. Thanks to their not being accustomed to it, and to the first excitement caused by their promotion, they contracted an exaggerated idea of their power and importance relatively to their subordinates. Before their superiors such men are revoltingly servile. The most fawning of them will even say to their superiors that they have been common soldiers, and that they do not forget their place. But towards their inferiors they are despots without mercy. Nothing irritates the convicts so much as such abuses. These overweening opinions of their own greatness; this exaggerated idea of their immunity, causes hatred in the hearts of the most submissive men, and drives the most patient to excesses. Fortunately, all this dates from a time that is almost forgotten, and even then the superior authorities used to deal very severely with abuses of power. I know more than one example of it. What exasperates the convicts above all is disdain or repugnance manifested by any one in dealing with them. Those who think that it is only necessary to feed and clothe the prisoner, and to act towards him in all things according to the law, are much mistaken. However much debased he may be, a man exacts instinctively respect for his character as a man. Every prisoner knows perfectly that he is a convict and a reprobate, and knows the distance which separates him from his superiors; but neither the branding irons nor chains will make him forget that he is a man. He must, therefore, be treated with humanity. Humane treatment may raise up one in whom the divine image has long been obscured. It is with the "unfortunate," above all, that humane conduct is necessary. It is their salvation, their only joy. I have met with some chiefs of a kind and noble character, and I have seen what a beneficent influence they exercised over the poor, humiliated men entrusted to their care. A few affable words have a wonderful moral effect upon the prisoners. They render them as happy as children, and make them sincerely grateful towards their chiefs. One other remark--they do not like their chiefs to be familiar and too much hail-fellow-well-met with them. They wish to respect them, and familiarity would prevent this. The prisoners will feel proud, for instance, if their chief has a number of decorations; if he has good manners; if he is well-considered by a powerful superior; if he is severe, but at the same time just, and possesses a consciousness of dignity. The convicts prefer such a man to all others. He knows what he is worth, and does not insult others. Everything then is for the best. "You got well skinned for that, I suppose," asked Kobylin. "As for being skinned, indeed, there is no denying it. Ali, give me the scissors. But, what next; are we not going to play at cards to-night?" "The cards we drank up long ago," remarked Vassili. "If we had not sold them to get drink they would be here now." "If!---- Ifs fetch a hundred roubles a piece on the Moscow market." "Well, Luka, what did you get for sticking him?" asked Kobylin. "It brought me five hundred strokes, my friend. It did indeed. They did all but kill me," said Luka, once more addressing the assembly and without heeding his neighbour Kobylin. "When they gave me those five hundred strokes, I was treated with great ceremony. I had never before been flogged. What a mass of people came to see me! The whole town had assembled to see the brigand, the murderer, receive his punishment. How stupid the populace is!--I cannot tell you to what extent. Timoshka the executioner undressed me and laid me down and cried out, 'Look out, I am going to grill you!' I waited for the first stroke. I wanted to cry out, but could not. It was no use opening my mouth, my voice had gone. When he gave me the second stroke--you need not believe me unless you please--I did not hear when they counted two. I returned to myself and heard them count seventeen. Four times they took me down from the board to let me breathe for half-an-hour, and to souse me with cold water. I stared at them with my eyes starting from my head, and said to myself, 'I shall die here.'" "But you did not die," remarked Kobylin innocently. Luka looked at him with disdain, and every one burst out laughing. "What an idiot! Is he wrong in the upper storey?" said Luka, as if he regretted that he had condescended to speak to such an idiot. "He is a little mad," said Vassili on his side. Although Luka had killed six persons, no one was ever afraid of him in the prison. He wished, however, to be looked upon as a terrible person. CHAPTER X. ISAIAH FOMITCH--THE BATH--BAKLOUCHIN. But the Christmas holidays were approaching, and the convicts looked forward to them with solemnity. From their mere appearance it was easy to see that something extraordinary was about to arrive. Four days before the holidays they were to be taken to the bath; every one was pleased, and was making preparations. We were to go there after dinner. On this occasion there was no work in the afternoon, and of all the convicts the one who was most pleased, and showed the greatest activity, was a certain Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein, a Jew, of whom I spoke in my fifth chapter. He liked to remain stewing in the bath until he became unconscious. Whenever I think of the prisoner's bath, which is a thing not to be forgotten, the first thought that presents itself to my memory is of that very glorious and eternally to be remembered, Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein, my prison companion. Good Lord! what a strange man he was! I have already said a few words about his face. He was fifty years of age, his face wrinkled, with frightful scars on his cheeks and on his forehead, and the thin, weak body of a fowl. His face expressed perpetual confidence in himself, and, I may almost say, perfect happiness. I do not think he was at all sorry to be condemned to hard labour. He was a jeweller by trade, and as there was no other in the town, he had always plenty of work to do, and was more or less well paid. He wanted nothing, and lived, so to say, sumptuously, without spending all that he gained, for he saved money and lent it out to the other convicts at interest. He possessed a tea-urn, a mattress, a tea-cup, and a blanket. The Jews of the town did not refuse him their patronage. Every Saturday he went under escort to the synagogue (which was authorised by the law); and he lived like a fighting cock. Nevertheless, he looked forward to the expiration of his term of imprisonment in order to get married. He was the most comic mixture of simplicity, stupidity, cunning, timidity, and bashfulness; but the strangest thing was that the convicts never laughed, or seriously mocked him--they only teased him for amusement. Isaiah Fomitch was a subject of distraction and amusement for every one. "We have only one Isaiah Fomitch, we will take care of him," the convicts seemed to say; and as if he understood this, he was proud of his own importance. From the account given to me it appeared he had entered the convict prison in the most laughable manner (it took place before my arrival). Suddenly one evening a report was spread in the convict prison that a Jew had been brought there, who at that moment was being shaved in the guard-house, and that he was immediately afterwards to be taken to the barracks. As there was not a single Jew in the prison, the convicts looked forward to his entry with impatience, and surrounded him as soon as he passed the great gates. The officer on service took him to the civil prison, and pointed out the place where his plank bedstead was to be. Isaiah Fomitch held in his hand a bag containing the things given to him, and some other things of his own. He put down his bag, took his place at the plank bedstead, and sat down there with his legs crossed, without daring to raise his eyes. People were laughing all round him. The convicts ridiculed him by reason of his Jewish origin. Suddenly a young convict left the others, and came up to him, carrying in his hand an old pair of summer trousers, dirty, torn, and mended with old rags. He sat down by the side of Isaiah Fomitch, and struck him on the shoulder. "Well, my dear fellow," said he, "I have been waiting for the last six years; look up and tell me how much you will give for this article," holding up his rags before him. Isaiah Fomitch was so dumbfounded that he did not dare to look at the mocking crowd, with mutilated and frightful countenances, now grouped around him, and did not speak a single word, so frightened was he. When he saw who was speaking to him he shuddered, and began to examine the rags carefully. Every one waited to hear his first words. "Well, cannot you give me a silver rouble for it? It is certainly worth that," said the would-be vendor smiling, and looking towards Isaiah Fomitch with a wink. "A silver rouble! no; but I will give you seven kopecks." These were the first words pronounced by Isaiah Fomitch in the convict prison. A loud laugh was heard from all sides. "Seven kopecks! Well, give them to me; you are lucky, you are indeed. Look! Take care of the pledge, you answer for it with your head." "With three kopecks for interest; that will make ten kopecks you will owe me," said the Jew, at the same time slipping his hand into his pocket to get out the sum agreed upon. "Three kopecks interest--for a year?" "No, not for a year, for a month." "You are a terrible screw, what is your name?" "Isaiah Fomitch." "Well, Isaiah Fomitch, you ought to get on. Good-bye." The Jew examined once more the rags on which he had lent seven kopecks, folded them up, and put them carefully away in his bag. The convicts continued to laugh at him. In reality every one laughed at him, but, although every prisoner owed him money, no one insulted him; and when he saw that every one was well disposed towards him, he gave himself haughty airs, but so comic that they were at once forgiven. Luka, who had known many Jews when he was at liberty, often teased him, less from malice than for amusement, as one plays with a dog or a parrot. Isaiah Fomitch knew this and did not take offence. "You will see, Jew, how I will flog you." "If you give me one blow I will return you ten," replied Isaiah Fomitch valiantly. "Scurvy Jew." "As scurvy as you like; I have in any case plenty of money." "Bravo! Isaiah Fomitch. We must take care of you. You are the only Jew we have; but they will send you to Siberia all the same." "I am already in Siberia." "They will send you farther on." "Is not the Lord God there?" "Of course, he is everywhere." "Well, then! With the Lord God, and money, one has all that is necessary." "What a fellow he is!" cries every one around him. The Jew sees that he is being laughed at, but does not lose courage. He gives himself airs. The flattery addressed to him causes him much pleasure, and with a high, squealing falsetto, which is heard throughout the barracks, he begins to sing, "la, la, la, la," to an idiotic and ridiculous tune; the only song he was heard to sing during his stay at the convict prison. When he made my acquaintance, he assured me solemnly that it was the song, and the very air, that was sung by 600,000 Jews, small and great, when they crossed the Red Sea, and that every Israelite was ordered to sing it after a victory gained over an enemy. The eve of each Saturday the convicts came from the other barracks to ours, expressly to see Isaiah Fomitch celebrating his Sabbath. He was so vain, so innocently conceited, that this general curiosity flattered him immensely. He covered the table in his little corner with a pedantic air of importance, opened a book, lighted two candles, muttered some mysterious words, and clothed himself in a kind of chasuble, striped, and with sleeves, which he preserved carefully at the bottom of his trunk. He fastened to his hands leather bracelets, and finally attached to his forehead, by means of a ribbon, a little box, which made it seem as if a horn were starting from his head. He then began to pray. He read in a drawling voice, cried out, spat, and threw himself about with wild and comic gestures. All this was prescribed by the ceremonies of his religion. There was nothing laughable or strange in it, except the airs which Isaiah Fomitch gave himself before us in performing his ceremonies. Then he suddenly covered his head with both hands, and began to read with many sobs. His tears increased, and in his grief he almost lay down upon the book his head with the ark upon it, howling as he did so; but suddenly in the midst of his despondent sobs he burst into a laugh, and recited with a nasal twang a hymn of triumph, as if he were overcome by an excess of happiness. "Impossible to understand it," the convicts would sometimes say to one another. One day I asked Isaiah Fomitch what these sobs signified, and why he passed so suddenly from despair to triumphant happiness. Isaiah Fomitch was very pleased when I asked him these questions. He explained to me directly that the sobs and tears were provoked by the loss of Jerusalem, and that the law ordered the pious Jew to groan and strike his breast; but at the moment of his most acute grief he was suddenly to remember that a prophecy had foretold the return of the Jews to Jerusalem, and he was then to manifest overflowing joy, to sing, to laugh, and to recite his prayers with an expression of happiness in his voice and on his countenance. This sudden passage from one phase of feeling to another delighted Isaiah Fomitch, and he explained to me this ingenious prescription of his faith with the greatest satisfaction. One evening, in the midst of his prayers, the Major entered, followed by the officer of the guard and an escort of soldiers. All the prisoners got immediately into line before their camp-bedsteads. Isaiah Fomitch alone continued to shriek and gesticulate. He knew that his worship was authorised, and that no one could interrupt him, so that in howling in the presence of the Major he ran no risk. It pleased him to throw himself about beneath the eyes of the chief. The Major approached within a few steps. Isaiah Fomitch turned his back to the table, and just in front of the officer began to sing his hymn of triumph, gesticulating and drawling out certain syllables. When he came to the part where he had to assume an expression of extreme happiness, he did so by blinking with his eyes, at the same time laughing and nodding his head in the direction of the Major. The latter was at first much astonished; then he burst into a laugh, called out, "Idiot!" and went away, while the Jew still continued to shriek. An hour later, when he had finished, I asked him what he would have done if the Major had been wicked enough and foolish enough to lose his temper. "What Major?" "What Major! Did you not see him? He was only two steps from you, and was looking at you all the time." But Isaiah Fomitch assured me as seriously as possible that he had not seen the Major, for while he was saying his prayers he was in such a state of ecstasy that he neither saw nor heard anything that was taking place around him. I can see Isaiah Fomitch wandering about on Saturday throughout the prison, endeavouring to do nothing, as the law prescribes to every Jew. What improbable anecdotes he told me! Every time he returned from the synagogue he always brought me some news of St. Petersburg, and the most absurd rumours imaginable from his fellow Jews of the town, who themselves had received them at first hand. But I have already spoken too much of Isaiah Fomitch. In the whole town there were only two public baths. The first, kept by a Jew, was divided into compartments, for which one paid fifty kopecks. It was frequented by the aristocracy of the town. The other bath, old, dirty, and close, was destined for the people. It was there that the convicts were taken. The air was cold and clear. The prisoners were delighted to get out of the fortress and have a walk through the town. During the walk their laughter and jokes never ceased. A platoon of soldiers, with muskets loaded, accompanied us. It was quite a sight for the town's-people. When we had reached our destination, the bath was so small that it did not permit us all to enter at once. We were divided into two bands, one of which waited in the cold room while the other one bathed in the hot one. Even then, so narrow was the room that it was difficult for us to understand how half of the convicts could stand together in it. Petroff kept close to me. He remained by my side without my having begged him to do so, and offered to rub me down. Baklouchin, a convict of the special section, offered me at the same time his services. I recollect this prisoner, who was called the "Sapper," as the gayest and most agreeable of all my companions. We had become intimate friends. Petroff helped me to undress, because I was generally a long time getting my things off, not being yet accustomed to the operation; and it was almost as cold in the dressing-room as outside the doors. It is very difficult for a convict who is still a novice to get his things off, for he must know how to undo the leather straps which fasten on the chains. These leather straps are buckled over the shirt, just beneath the ring which encloses the leg. One pair of straps costs sixty kopecks, and each convict is obliged to get himself a pair, for it would be impossible to walk without their assistance. The ring does not enclose the leg too tightly. One can pass the finger between the iron and the flesh; but the ring rubs against the calf, so that in a single day the convict who walks without leather straps, gets his skin broken. To take off the straps presents no difficulty. It is not the same with the clothes. To get the trousers off is in itself a prodigious operation, and the same may be said of the shirt whenever it has to be changed. The first who gave us lessons in this art was Koreneff, a former chief of brigands, condemned to be chained up for five years. The convicts are very skilful at the work, and do it readily. I gave a few kopecks to Petroff to buy soap and a bunch of the twigs with which one rubs oneself in the bath. Bits of soap were given to the convicts, but they were not larger than pieces of two kopecks. The soap was sold in the dressing-room, as well as mead, cakes of white flour, and boiling water; for each convict received but one pailful, according to the agreement made between the proprietor of the bath and the administration of the prison. The convicts who wished to make themselves thoroughly clean, could for two kopecks buy another pailful, which the proprietor handed to them through a window pierced in the wall for that purpose. As soon as I was undressed, Petroff took me by the arm and observed to me that I should find it difficult to walk with my chains. "Drag them up on to your calves," he said to me, holding me by the arms at the same time, as if I were an old man. I was ashamed at his care, and assured him that I could walk well enough by myself, but he did not believe me. He paid me the same attention that one gives to an awkward child. Petroff was not a servant in any sense of the word. If I had offended him, he would have known how to deal with me. I had promised him nothing for his assistance, nor had he asked me for anything. What inspired him with so much solicitude for me? Represent to yourself a room of twelve feet long by as many broad, in which a hundred men are all crowded together, or at least eighty, for we were in all two hundred divided into two sections. The steam blinded us; the sweat, the dirt, the want of space, were such that we did not know where to put a foot down. I was frightened and wished to go out. Petroff hastened to reassure me. With great trouble we succeeded in raising ourselves on to the benches, by passing over the heads of the convicts, whom we begged to bend down, in order to let us pass; but all the benches were already occupied. Petroff informed me that I must buy a place, and at once entered into negotiations with the convict who was near the window. For a kopeck this man consented to cede me his place. After receiving the money, which Petroff held tight in his hand, and which he had prudently provided himself with beforehand, the man crept just beneath me into a dark and dirty corner. There was there, at least, half an inch of filth; even the places above the benches were occupied, the convicts swarmed everywhere. As for the floor there was not a place as big as the palm of the hand which was not occupied by the convicts. They sent the water in spouts out of their pails. Those who were standing up washed themselves pail in hand, and the dirty water ran all down their body to fall on the shaved heads of those who were sitting down. On the upper bench, and the steps which led to it, were heaped together other convicts who washed themselves more thoroughly, but these were in small number. The populace does not care to wash with soap and water, it prefers stewing in a horrible manner, and then inundating itself with cold water. That is how the common people take their bath. On the floor could be seen fifty bundles of rods rising and falling at the same time, the holders were whipping themselves into a state of intoxication. The steam became thicker and thicker every minute, so that what one now felt was not a warm but a burning sensation, as from boiling pitch. The convicts shouted and howled to the accompaniment of the hundred chains shaking on the floor. Those who wished to pass from one place to another got their chains mixed up with those of their neighbours, and knocked against the heads of the men who were lower down than they. Then there were volleys of oaths as those who fell dragged down the ones whose chains had become entangled in theirs. They were all in a state of intoxication of wild exultation. Cries and shrieks were heard on all sides. There was much crowding and crushing at the window of the dressing-room through which the hot water was delivered, and much of it got spilt over the heads of those who were seated on the floor before it arrived at its destination. We seemed to be fully at liberty; and yet from time to time, behind the window of the dressing-room, or through the open door, could be seen the moustached face of a soldier, with his musket at his feet, watching that no serious disorder took place. The shaved heads of the convicts, and their red bodies, which the steam made the colour of blood, seemed more monstrous than ever. On their backs, made scarlet by the steam, stood out in striking relief the scars left by the whips and the rods, made long before, but so thoroughly that the flesh seemed to have been quite recently torn. Strange scars. A shudder passed through me at the mere sight of them. Again the volume of steam increased, and the bath-room was now covered with a thick, burning cloud, covering agitation and cries. From this cloud stood out torn backs, shaved heads; and, to complete the picture, Isaiah Fomitch howling with joy on the highest of the benches. He was saturating himself with steam. Any other man would have fainted away, but no temperature is too high for him; he engages the services of a rubber for a kopeck, but after a few moments the latter is unable to continue, throws away his bunch of twigs, and runs to inundate himself with cold water. Isaiah Fomitch does not lose courage, he runs to hire a second rubber, then a third; on these occasions he thinks nothing of expense, and changes his rubber four or five times. "He stews well, the gallant Isaiah Fomitch," cry the convicts from below. The Jew feels that he goes beyond all the others, he has beaten them; he triumphs with his hoarse falsetto voice, and sings out his favourite air which rises above the general hubbub. It seemed to me that if ever we met in hell we should be reminded of the place where we then were. I could not resist a wish to communicate this idea to Petroff. He looked all round him, but made no answer. I wished to buy a place for him on the bench by my side; but he sat down at my feet and declared that he felt quite at his ease. Baklouchin meanwhile bought us some hot water which he would bring to us as soon as we wanted it. Petroff offered to clean me from head to foot, and he begged me to go through the preliminary stewing process. I could not make up my mind to it. At last he rubbed me all over with soap. I wished to make him understand that I could wash myself, but it was no use contradicting him and I gave myself up to him. When he had done with me he took me back to the dressing-room, holding me up, and telling me at each step to take care, as if I had been made of porcelain. He helped me to put on my clothes, and when he had finished his kindly work he rushed back to the bath to have a thorough stewing. When we got back to the barracks I offered him a glass of tea, which he did not refuse. He drank it and thanked me. I wished to go to the expense of a glass of vodka in his honour, and I succeeded in getting it on the spot. Petroff was exceedingly pleased. He swallowed his vodka with a murmur of satisfaction, declared that I had restored him to life, and then suddenly rushed to the kitchen, as if the people who were talking there could not decide anything important without him. Now another man came up for a talk. This was Baklouchin, of whom I have already spoken, and whom I had also invited to take tea. I never knew a man of a more agreeable disposition than Baklouchin. It must be admitted that he never forgave a wrong, and that he often got into quarrels. He could not, above all, endure people interfering with his affairs. He knew, in a word, how to take care of himself; but his quarrels never lasted long, and I believe that all the convicts liked him. Wherever he went he was well received. Even in the town he was looked upon as the most amusing man in the world. He was a man of lofty stature, thirty years old, with a frank, determined countenance, and rather good-looking, with his tuft of hair on his chin. He possessed the art of changing his face in such a comic manner by imitating the first person he happened to see, that the people around him were constantly in a roar. He was a professed joker, but he never allowed himself to be slighted by those who did not enjoy his fun. Accordingly, no one spoke disparagingly of him. He was full of life and fire. He made my acquaintance at the very beginning of my imprisonment, and related to me his military career, when he was a sapper in the Engineers, where he had been placed as a favour by people of influence. He put a number of questions to me about St. Petersburg; he even read books when he came to take tea with me. He amused the whole company by relating how roughly Lieutenant K---- had that morning handled the Major. He told me, moreover, with a satisfied air, as he took his seat by my side, that we should probably have a theatrical representation in the prison. The convicts proposed to get up a play during the Christmas holidays. The necessary actors were found, and, little by little, the scenery was prepared. Some persons in the town had promised to lend women's clothes for the performance. Some hopes were even entertained of obtaining, through the medium of an officer's servant, a uniform with epaulettes, provided only the Major did not take it into his head to forbid the performance, as he had done the previous year. He was at that time in ill-humour through having lost at cards, and he had been annoyed at something that had taken place in the prison. Accordingly, in a fit of ill-humour, he had forbidden the performance. It was possible, however, that this year he would not prevent it. Baklouchin was in a state of exultation. It could be seen that he would be one of the principal supporters of the meditated theatre. I made up my mind to be present at the performance. The ingenuous joy which Baklouchin manifested in speaking of the undertaking was quite touching. From whispering, we gradually got to talk of the matter quite openly. He told me, among other things, that he had not served at St. Petersburg alone. He had been sent to R---- with the rank of non-commissioned officer in a garrison battalion. "From there they sent me on here," added Baklouchin. "And why?" I asked him. "Why? You would never guess, Alexander Petrovitch. Because I was in love." "Come now. A man is not exiled for that," I said, with a laugh. "I should have added," continued Baklouchin, "that it made me kill a German with a pistol-shot. Was it worth while to send me to hard labour for killing a German? Only think." "How did it happen? Tell me the story. It must be a strange one." "An amusing story indeed, Alexander Petrovitch." "So much the better. Tell me." "You wish me to do so? Well, then, listen." And he told me the story of his murder. It was not "amusing," but it was indeed strange. "This is how it happened," began Baklouchin; "I had been sent to Riga, a fine, handsome city, which has only one fault, there are too many Germans there. I was still a young man, and I had a good character with my officers. I wore my cap cocked on the side of my head, and passed my time in the most agreeable manner. I made love to the German girls. One of them, named Luisa, pleased me very much. She and her aunt were getters-up of fine linen. The old woman was a true caricature; but she had money. First of all I merely passed under the young girl's windows; but I soon made her acquaintance. Luisa spoke Russian well enough, though with a slight accent. She was charming. I never saw any one like her. I was most pressing in my advances; but she only replied that she would preserve her innocence, that as a wife she might prove worthy of me. She was an affectionate, smiling girl, and wonderfully neat. In fact, I assure you, I never saw any one like her. She herself had suggested that I should marry her, and how was I not to marry her? Suddenly Luisa did not come to her appointment. This happened once, then twice, then a third time. I sent her a letter, but she did not reply. 'What is to be done?' I said to myself. If she had been deceiving me she could easily have taken me in. She could have answered my letter and come all the same to the appointment; but she was incapable of falsehood. She had simply broken off with me. 'This is a trick of the aunt,' I said to myself. I was afraid to go to her house. "Even though she was aware of our engagement, we acted as if she were ignorant of it. I wrote a fine letter in which I said to Luisa, 'If you don't come, I will come to your aunt's for you.' She was afraid and came. Then she began to weep, and told me that a German named Schultz, a distant relation of theirs, a clockmaker by trade, and of a certain age, but rich, had shown a wish to marry her--in order to make her happy, as he said, and that he himself might not remain without a wife in his old age. He had loved her a long time, so she told me, and had been nourishing this idea for years, but he had kept it a secret, and had never ventured to speak out. 'You see, Sasha,' she said to me, 'that it is a question of my happiness; for he is rich, and would you prevent my happiness?' I looked her in the face, she wept, embraced me, clasped me in her arms. "'Well, she is quite right,' I said to myself, 'what good is there in marrying a soldier--even a non-commissioned officer? Come, farewell, Luisa. God protect you. I have no right to prevent your happiness.' "'And what sort of a man is he? Is he good-looking?' "'No, he is old, and he has such a long nose.' "She here burst into a fit of laughter. I left her. 'It was my destiny,' I said to myself. The next day I passed by Schultz' shop (she had told me where he lived). I looked through the window and saw a German, who was arranging a watch, forty-five years of age, an aquiline nose, swollen eyes, a dress-coat with a very high collar. I spat with contempt as I looked at him. At that moment I was ready to break the shop windows, but 'What is the use of it?' I said to myself; 'there is nothing more to be done: it is over, all over.' I got back to the barracks as the night was falling, and stretched myself out on my bed, and--will you believe it, Alexander Petrovitch?--began to sob--yes, to sob. One day passed, then a second, then a third. I saw Luisa no more. I had learned, however, from an old woman (she was also a washerwoman, and the girl I loved used sometimes to visit her), that this German knew of our relations, and that for that reason he had made up his mind to marry her as soon as possible, otherwise he would have waited two years longer. He had made Luisa swear that she would see me no more. It appeared that on account of me he had refused to loosen his purse-strings, and kept Luisa and her aunt very close. Perhaps he would yet change his idea, for he was not very resolute. The old woman told me that he had invited them to take coffee with him the next day, a Sunday, and that another relation, a former shopkeeper, now very poor, and an assistant in some liquor store, would also come. When I found that the business was to be settled on Sunday, I was so furious that I could not recover my cold blood, and the following day I did nothing but reflect. I believe I could have devoured that German. On Sunday morning I had not come to any decision. As soon as the service was over I ran out, got into my great-coat, and went to the house of this German. I thought I should find them all there. Why I went to the German, and what I meant to say to him, I did not know myself. "I slipped a pistol into my pocket to be ready for everything; a little pistol which was not worth a curse, with an old-fashioned lock--a thing I had used when I was a boy, and which was really fit for nothing. I loaded it, however, because I thought they would try to kick me out, and that the German would insult me, in which case I would pull out my pistol to frighten them all. I arrived. There was no one on the staircase; they were all in the work-room. No servant. The one girl who waited upon them was absent. I crossed the shop and saw that the door was closed--an old door fastened from the inside. My heart beat; I stopped and listened. They were speaking German. I broke open the door with a kick. I looked round. The table was laid; there was a large coffee-pot on it, with a spirit lamp underneath, and a plate of biscuits. On a tray there was a small decanter of brandy, herrings, sausages, and a bottle of some wine. Luisa and her aunt, both in their Sunday best, were seated on a sofa. Opposite them, the German was exhibiting himself on a chair, got up like a bridegroom, and in his coat with the high collar, and with his hair carefully combed. On the other side, there was another German, old, fat, and gray. He was taking no part in the conversation. When I entered, Luisa turned very pale. The aunt sprang up with a bound and sat down again. The German became angry. What a rage he was in! He got up, and walking towards me, said: "'What do you want?' "I should have lost my self-possession if anger had not supported me. "'What do I want? Is this the way to receive a guest? Why do you not offer him something to drink? I have come to pay you a visit.' "The German reflected a moment, and then said, 'Sit down.' "I sat down. "'Here is some vodka. Help yourself, I beg.' "'And let it be good,' I cried, getting more and more into a rage. "'It is good.' "I was enraged to see him looking at me from top to toe. The most frightful part of it was, that Luisa was looking on. I took a drink and said to him: "'Look here, German, what business have you to speak rudely to me? Let us be better acquainted. I have come to see you as friends.' "'I cannot be your friend,' he replied. 'You are a private soldier.' "Then I lost all self-command. "'Oh, you German! You sausage-seller! You know how much you are in my power. Look here; do you wish me to break your head with this pistol?' "I drew out my pistol, got up, and struck him on the forehead. The women were more dead than alive; they were afraid to breathe. The eldest of the two men, quite white, was trembling like a leaf. "The German seemed much astonished. But he soon recovered himself. "'I am not afraid of you,' he said, 'and I beg of you, as a well-bred man, to put an end to this pleasantry. I am not afraid of you!' "'You are afraid! You dare not move while this pistol is presented at you.' "'You dare not do such a thing!' he cried. "'And why should I not dare?' "'Because you would be severely punished.' "May the devil take that idiot of a German! If he had not urged me on, he would have been alive now. "'So you think I dare not?' "'No.' "'I dare not, you think?' "'You would not dare!' "'Wouldn't I, sausage-maker?' I fired the pistol, and down he sank on his chair. The others uttered shrieks. I put back my pistol in my pocket, and when I returned to the fortress, threw it among some weeds near the principal entrance. "Inside the barracks I laid on my bed, and said to myself, 'I shall be taken away soon.' One hour passed, then another, but I was not arrested. "Towards evening I felt so sad, I went out at all hazards to see Luisa; I passed before the house of the clockmaker's. There were a number of people there, including the police. I ran on to the old woman's and said: "'Call Luisa!' "I had only a moment to wait. She came immediately, and threw herself on my neck in tears. "'It is my fault,' she said. 'I should not have listened to my aunt.' "She then told me that her aunt, immediately after the scene, had gone back home. She was in such a fright that she fell and did not speak a word; she had uttered nothing. On the contrary, she ordered her niece to be as silent as herself. "'No one has seen her since,' said Luisa. "The clockmaker had previously sent his servant away, for he was afraid of her. She was jealous, and would have scratched his eyes out had she known that he wished to get married. "There were no workmen in the house, he had sent them all away; he had himself prepared the coffee and collation. As for the relation, who had scarcely spoken a word all his life, he took his hat, and, without opening his mouth, went away. "'He is quite sure to be silent,' added Luisa. "So, indeed, he was. For two weeks no one arrested me nor suspected me the least in the world. "You need not believe me unless you choose, Alexander Petrovitch. "These two weeks were the happiest in my life. I saw Luisa every day. And how much she had become attached to me! "She said to me through her tears: 'If you are exiled, I will go with you. I will leave everything to follow you.' "I thought of making away with myself, so much had she moved me; but after two weeks I was arrested. The old man and the aunt had agreed to denounce me." "But," I interrupted, "Baklouchin, for that they would only have given you from ten to twelve years' hard labour, and in the civil section; yet you are in the special section. How does that happen?" "That is another affair," said Baklouchin. "When I was taken before the Council of War, the captain appointed to conduct the case began by insulting me, and calling me names before the Tribunal. I could not stand it, and shouted out to him: 'Why do you insult me? Don't you see, you scoundrel! that you are only looking at yourself in the glass?' "This brought a new charge against me. I was tried a second time, and for the two things was condemned to four thousand strokes, and to the special section. When I was taken out to receive my punishment in the _Green Street_, the captain was at the same time sent away. He had been degraded from his rank, and was despatched to the Caucasus as a private soldier. Good-bye, Alexander Petrovitch. Don't fail to come to our performance." CHAPTER XI. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS The holidays were approaching. On the eve of the great day the convicts scarcely ever went to work. Those who had been assigned to the sewing workshops, and a few others, went to work as usual; but they went back almost immediately to the convict prison, separately, or in parties. After dinner no one worked. From the early morning the greater part of the convicts were occupied with their own affairs, and not with those of the administration. Some were making arrangements for bringing in spirits, while others were seeking permission to see their friends, or to collect small accounts due to them for the work they had already executed. Baklouchin, and the convicts who were to take part in the performance, were endeavouring to persuade some of their acquaintances, nearly all officers' servants, to procure for them the necessary costumes. Some of them came and went with a business-like air, solely because others were really occupied. They had no money to receive, and yet seemed to expect a payment. Every one, in short, seemed to be looking for a change of some kind. Towards evening the old soldiers, who executed the convicts' commissions, brought them all kinds of victuals--meat, sucking-pigs, and geese. Many prisoners, even the most simple and most economical, after saving up their kopecks throughout the year, thought they ought to spend some of them that day, so as to celebrate Christmas Eve in a worthy manner. The day afterwards was for the convicts a still greater festival, one to which they had a right, as it was recognised by law. The prisoners could not be sent to work that day. There were not three days like it in all the year. And, moreover, what recollections must have been agitating the souls of those reprobates at the approach of such a solemn day! The common people from their childhood kept the great festival in their memory. They must have remembered with anguish and torments these days which, work being laid aside, are passed in the bosom of the family. The respect of the convicts for that day had something imposing about it. The drunkards were not at all numerous; nearly every one was serious, and, so to say, preoccupied, though they had for the most part nothing to do. Even those who feasted most preserved a serious air. Laughter seemed to be forbidden. A sort of intolerant susceptibility reigned throughout the prison; and if any one interfered with the general repose, even involuntarily, he was soon put in his proper place, with cries and oaths. He was condemned as though he had been wanting in respect to the festival itself. This disposition of the convicts was remarkable, and even touching. Besides the innate veneration they have for this great day, they foresee that in observing the festival they are in communion with the rest of the world; that they are not altogether reprobates lost and cast off by society. The usual rejoicings took place in the convict prison as well as outside. They felt all that. I saw it, and understood it myself. Akim Akimitch had made great preparations for the festival. He had no family recollections, being an orphan, born in a strange house, and put into the army at the age of fifteen. He could never have experienced any great joys, having always lived regularly and uniformly in the fear of infringing the rules imposed upon him, nor was he very religious; for his acquired formality had stifled in him all human feeling, all passions and likings, good or bad. He accordingly prepared to keep Christmas without exciting himself about it. He was saddened by no painful, useless recollection. He did everything with the punctuality imposed upon him in the execution of his duties, and in order once for all to get through the ceremony in a becoming manner. Moreover, he did not care to reflect upon the importance of the day, had never troubled his brain about it, even while he was executing his prescribed duties with religious minuteness. If he had been ordered the day following to do contrary to what he had done the evening before he would have done it with equal submission. Once in life, once, and once only, he had wished to act by his own impulse--and he had been sent to hard labour for it. This lesson had not been lost upon him, although it was written that he was never to understand his fault. He had yet become impressed with this salutary moral principle: never to reason in any matter because his mind was not equal to the task of judging. Blindly devoted to ceremonies, he looked with respect at the sucking-pig which he had stuffed with millet-seed, and which he had roasted himself (for he had some culinary skill), just as if it had not been an ordinary sucking-pig which could have been bought and roasted at any time, but a particular kind of animal born specially for Christmas Day. Perhaps he had been accustomed from his tender infancy to see that day a sucking-pig on the table, and he may have concluded that a sucking-pig was indispensable for the proper celebration of the festival. I am certain that if by ill-luck he had not eaten this particular kind of meat on that day, he would have been troubled with remorse all his life for not having done his duty. Until Christmas morning he wore his old vest and his old trousers, which had long been threadbare. I then learned that he kept carefully in his box his new clothes which had been given to him four months before, and that he had not put them on once, in order that he might wear them for the first time on Christmas Day. He did so. The evening before he took his new clothes out of his trunk, unfolded, examined them, cleaned them, blew on them to remove the dust, and when he was convinced that they were perfect, probably tried them on. The dress became him perfectly; all the different garments suited one another. The waistcoat buttoned up to the neck, the collar, straight and stiff like cardboard, kept his chin in its proper place. There was a military cut about the dress; and Akim Akimitch, as he wore it, smiled with satisfaction, turning himself round and round, not without swagger, before a little mirror adorned with a gilt border. One of the waistcoat-buttons alone seemed out of place; Akim Akimitch remarked it, and at once set it right. He tried on the vest again and found it irreproachable. Then he folded up his things as before, and with a satisfied mind locked them up in his box until the next day. His skull was sufficiently shaved; but, after careful examination, Akim Akimitch came to the conclusion that it was not in good condition, his hair had imperceptibly sprung up. He accordingly went immediately to the "Major" to be properly shaved according to the rules. In reality no one would have dreamed of looking at him next day, but he was acting conscientiously in order to fulfil all his duties. This care lest the smallest button, the least thread of an epaulette, the slightest string of a tassel should go wrong, was engraved in his mind as an imperious duty, and in his heart as the image of the most perfect order that could possibly be attained. As one of the "old hands" in the barracks, he saw that hay was brought and strewed about on the floor; the same thing was done in the other barracks. I do not know why, but hay was always strewed on the ground at Christmas time. As soon as Akim Akimitch had finished his work he said his prayers, stretched himself on his bed, and went to sleep, with the sleep of a child, in order to wake up as early as possible the next day. The other convicts did the same. It must be added that all of them went to bed, but sooner than usual. They gave up their ordinary evening work that day. As for playing cards, no one would have dared even to speak of such a thing; every one was anxiously expecting the next morning. At last this morning arrived. At an early hour, even before it was light, the drum was sounded, and the under officer, whose duty it was to count the convicts, wished them a happy Christmas. The prisoners answered him in an affable and amiable tone by expressing a like wish. Akim Akimitch, and many others, who had their geese and their sucking-pigs, went to the kitchen, after saying their prayers, in a hurried manner to see where their victuals were and how they were being cooked. Through the little windows of our barracks, half hidden by the snow and the ice, could be seen, flaring in the darkness, the bright fire of the two kitchens where six stoves had been lighted. In the court-yard, where it was still dark, the convicts, each with a half pelisse round his shoulders, or perhaps fully dressed, were hurrying towards the kitchen. Some of them, meanwhile--a very small number--had already visited the drink-sellers. They were the impatient ones, but they behaved becomingly, possibly much better than on ordinary days; neither quarrels nor insults were heard, every one understood that it was a great day, a great festival. The convicts went even to visit the other barracks in order to wish the inmates a happy Christmas; that day a sort of friendship seemed to exist between them all. I will remark in passing that the convicts have scarcely ever any intimate friendships. It was very rare to see a man on confidential terms with any other man, as, in the outer world. We were generally harsh and abrupt in our mutual relations. With some rare exceptions this was the general tone adopted and maintained. I went out of the barracks like the others. It was beginning to get late. The stars were paling, a light, icy mist was rising from the earth, and spirals of smoke were ascending in curls from the chimneys. Several convicts whom I met wished me, with affability, a happy Christmas. I thanked them and returned their wishes. Some of them had never spoken to me before. Near the kitchen, a convict from the military barracks, with his sheepskin on his shoulder, came up to me. Recognising me, he called out from the middle of the court-yard, "Alexander Petrovitch." He ran towards me. I waited for him. He was a young fellow, with a round face and soft eyes, and not at all communicative as a rule. He had not spoken to me since my arrival, and seemed never to have noticed me. I did not know on my side what his name was. When he came up, he remained planted before me, smiling with a vacuous smile, but with a happy expression of countenance. "What do you want?" I asked, not without astonishment. He remained standing before me, still smiling and staring, but without replying to my question. "Why, it is Christmas Day," he muttered. He understood that he had nothing more to say, and now hastened into the kitchen. I must add that, after this we scarcely ever met, and that we never spoke to one another again. Round the flaming stoves of the kitchen the convicts were rubbing and pushing against one another. Every one was watching his own property. The cooks were preparing the dinner, which was to take place a little earlier than usual. No one began to eat before the time, though a good many wished to do so; but it was necessary to be well-behaved before the others. We were waiting for the priest, and the fast preceding Christmas would not be at an end until his arrival. It was not yet perfectly light, when the corporal was already heard shouting out from behind the principal gate of the prison: "The kitchen; the kitchen." These calls were repeated without interruption for about two hours. The cooks were wanted in order to receive gifts brought from all parts of the town in enormous numbers; loaves of white bread, scones, rusks, pancakes, and pastry of various kinds. I do not think there was a shop-keeper in the whole town who did not send something to the "unfortunates." Amongst these gifts there were some magnificent ones, including a good many cakes of the finest flour. There were also some very poor ones, such as rolls worth two kopecks a piece, and a couple of brown rolls, covered lightly over with sour cream. These were the offerings of the poor to the poor, on which a last kopeck had often been spent. All these gifts were accepted with equal gratitude, without reference to the value or the giver. The convicts, on receiving the offerings, took off their caps and thanked the donors with low bows, wishing them a happy Christmas, and then carried the things to the kitchen. When a number of loaves and cakes had been collected, the elders of each barrack were called, and it was for them to divide the whole in equal portions among all the sections. The division excited neither protest nor annoyance. It was made honestly, equitably. Akim Akimitch, helped by another prisoner, divided between the convicts of our barracks the share assigned to us, and gave to each of us what came to him. Every one was satisfied. No objection was made by any one. There was not the least manifestation of envy, and it occurred to no one to deceive another. When Akim Akimitch had finished at the kitchen, he proceeded religiously to dress himself, and did so with a solemn air. He buttoned up his waistcoat button by button, in the most punctilious manner. Then, when he had got his new clothes on, he went to pray, which occupied him a considerable time. Numbers of convicts fulfilled their religious duties, but these were for the most part old men. The young men scarcely ever prayed. The most they did was to make the sign of the cross when they rose from table, and that happened only on festival days. Akim Akimitch came up to me as soon as he had finished his prayer, to express to me the usual good wishes. I invited him to have some tea, and he returned my politeness by offering me some of his sucking-pig. After some time Petroff came up to address to me the usual compliments. I think he had been already drinking, and although he seemed to have much to say, he scarcely spoke. He stood up before me for some seconds, and then went back to the kitchen. The priest was now expected in the military section of the barracks. This section was not constructed like the others. The camp-bedsteads were arranged all along the wall, and not in the middle of the room as in all the others, so that it was the only one in which the middle was not obstructed. It had been probably arranged in this manner so that in case of necessity it might be easier to assemble the convicts. A small table had been prepared in the middle of the room, and a holy image placed upon it, before which burned a little lamp. At last the priest arrived, with the cross and holy water. He prayed and chanted before the image, and then turned towards the convicts, who one after the other came and kissed the cross. The priest then walked through all the barracks, sprinkling them with holy water. When he got to the kitchen he praised the bread of the convict prison, which had quite a reputation in town. The convicts at once expressed a desire to send him two loaves of new bread, still hot, which an old soldier was ordered to take to his house forthwith. The convicts walked back after the cross with the same respect as they had received it. Almost immediately afterwards, the Major and the Commandant arrived. The Commandant was liked, and even respected. He made the tour of the barracks in company with the Major, wished the convicts a happy Christmas, went into the kitchen, and tasted the cabbage soup. It was excellent that day. Each convict was entitled to nearly a pound of meat, besides which there was millet-seed in it, and certainly the butter had not been spared. The Major saw the Commandant to the door, and then ordered the convicts to begin dinner. Each endeavoured not to be under the Major's eyes. They did not like his spiteful, inquisitorial look from behind his spectacles as he wandered from right to left, seeking apparently some disorder to repress, some crime to punish. We dined. Akim Akimitch's sucking-pig was admirably roasted. I could never understand how, five minutes after the Major left, there was a mass of drunken prisoners, whereas as long as he remained every one was perfectly calm. Red, radiant faces were now numerous, and the balalaiki [Russian banjoes] soon appeared. Then came the little Pole, playing his violin, a convivial prisoner having engaged him for the whole day to play lively dance-tunes. The conversation became more animated and more noisy, but the dinner ended without great disorders. Every one had had enough. Some of the old men, serious-minded convicts, went immediately to bed. So did Akim Akimitch, who probably thought it was a duty to go to sleep after dinner on festival days. The "old believer" from Starodoub, after having slumbered a little, climbed up on to the top of the stove, opened his book, and prayed the entire day until late in the evening without interruption. The spectacle of so shameless an orgie was painful to him, he said. All the Circassians left the table. They looked with curiosity, but with a touch of disgust, at this drunken society. I met Nourra. "Aman, aman," he said, with a burst of honest indignation, and shaking his head. "What an offence to Allah!" Isaiah Fomitch lighted, with an arrogant and obstinate air, a candle in his favourite corner, and went to work in order to show that in his eyes this was no holiday. Here and there card parties were arranged. The convicts did not fear the old soldiers, but men were placed on the look-out in case the under officer should suddenly come in. He made a point, however, of seeing nothing. The officer of the guard made altogether three rounds. The prisoners, if they were drunk, hid themselves at once. The cards disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. I fancy that he had made up his mind not to notice any contraventions of an unimportant kind. Drunkenness was not an offence that day. Little by little every one became more or less gay. Then there were some quarrels. The greater number of the prisoners, however, remained calm, amusing themselves with the spectacle of those who were intoxicated. Some of these drank without limit. Gazin was triumphant. He walked about with a self-satisfied air, by the side of his camp bedstead, beneath which he had concealed his spirits, previously buried beneath the snow behind the barracks, in a secret place. He smiled knowingly when he saw customers arrive in crowds. He was perfectly calm. He had drunk nothing at all; for it was his intention to regale himself the last day of the holidays, after he had emptied the pockets of the other prisoners. Throughout the barracks the drunkenness was becoming infernal. Singing was heard, and the songs were giving way to tears. Some of the prisoners walked about in bands, sheepskin on shoulder, striking with a haughty air the strings of their balalaiki. A chorus of from eight to ten men had been formed in the special section. The singing here was excellent, with its accompaniments of balalaiki and guitars. Songs of a truly popular kind were rare. I remember one which was admirably sung: Yesterday, I, a young girl, Went to the feast. A variation was introduced previously unknown to me. At the end of the song these lines were added: At my house, the house of a young girl, Everything is in order. I have washed the spoons, I have turned out the cabbage-soup, I have wiped down the panels of the door, I have cooked the patties. What they chiefly sang were prison songs; one of them, called "As it happened," was very humorous. It related how a man amused himself, and lived like a prince until he was sent to the convict prison, where he fared very differently. Another song, only too popular, set forth how the hero of it had formerly possessed capital, but had now nothing but captivity. Here is a true convict's song: The day breaks in the heavens, We are waked up by the drum. The old man opens the door, The warder comes and calls us. No one sees us behind the prison walls, Nor how we live in this place. But God, the Heavenly Creator, is with us He will not let us perish. Another still more melancholy, but with a superb melody, was sung to tame and incorrect words. I can remember a few of the verses: My eyes no more will see the land, Where I was born; To suffer torments undeserved, Will be my punishment. The owl will shriek upon the roof, And raise the echoes of the forest. My heart is broken down with grief. No, never more shall I return. This song is often sung; not as a chorus, but always as a solo. When the work is over, a prisoner goes out of the barracks, sits down on the threshold, meditates with his chin resting on his hand, and then drawls out his song in a high falsetto. One listens to him, and the effect is heart-breaking. Some of our convicts had beautiful voices. Meanwhile it was getting dusk. Wearisomeness and general depression were making themselves felt through the drunkenness and the debauchery. The prisoner, who an hour beforehand was holding his sides with laughter, now sobbed in a corner, exceedingly drunk; others were fighting, or wandering in a tottering manner through the barracks, pale, very pale, and seeking whom to quarrel with. These poor people had wished to pass the great festival in the most joyous manner, but, gracious heaven, how painful the day was for all of them! They had passed it in the vague hope of a happiness that was not to be realised. Petroff came up to me twice. As he had drunk very little he was calm; but until the last moment he expected something which he made sure would happen, something extraordinary, and highly diverting. Although he said nothing about it, this could be seen from his looks. He ran from barrack to barrack without fatigue. Nothing, however, happened; nothing except general intoxication, idiotic insults from drunkards, and general giddiness of heated heads. Sirotkin wandered about also, dressed in a brand-new red shirt, going from barrack to barrack, and good-looking as usual. He also was on the watch for something to happen. The spectacle became insupportably repulsive, indeed nauseating. There were some laughable things, but I was too sad to be amused by them. I felt a deep pity for all these men, and felt strangled, stifled, in the midst of them. Here two convicts were disputing as to which should treat the other. The dispute lasts a long time; they have almost come to blows. One of them has, for a long time past, had a grudge against the other. He complains, stammering as he does so, and tries to prove to his companion that he acted unjustly when, a year before, he sold a pelisse and concealed the money. There was more than this too. The complainant is a tall young fellow, with good muscular development, quiet, by no means stupid, but who, when he is drunk, wishes to make friends with every one, and to pour out his grief into their bosom. He insults his adversary with the intention of becoming reconciled to him later on. The other man, a big, massive person, with a round face, as cunning as a fox, had perhaps drunk more than his companion, but appeared only slightly intoxicated. This convict has character, and passes for a rich man; he has probably no interest in irritating his companion, and he accordingly leads him to one of the drink-sellers. The expansive friend declares that his companion owes him money, and that he is bound to stand him a drink "if he has any pretensions to be considered an honest man." The drink-seller, not without some respect for his customer, and with a touch of contempt for the expansive friend (for he was drinking at the expense of another man), took a glass and filled it with vodka. "No, Stepka, you must pay, because you owe me money." "I won't tire my tongue talking to you any longer," replied Stepka. "No, Stepka, you lie," continues his friend, taking up a glass offered to him by the drink-seller. "You owe me money, and you must be without conscience. You have not a thing about you that you have not borrowed, and I don't believe your very eyes are your own. In a word, Stepka, you are a blackguard." "What are you whining about? Look, you are spilling your vodka." "If you are being treated, why don't you drink?" cries the drink-seller, to the expansive friend. "I cannot wait here until to-morrow." "I will drink, don't be frightened. What are you crying out about? My best wishes for the day. My best wishes for the day, Stepan Doroveitch," replies the latter politely, as he bows, glass in hand, towards Stepka, whom the moment before he had called a blackguard. "Good health to you, and may you live a hundred years in addition to what you have lived already." He drinks, gives a grunt of satisfaction, and wipes his mouth. "What quantities of brandy I have drunk," he says, gravely speaking to every one, without addressing any one in particular, "but I have finished now. Thank me, Stepka Doroveitch." "There is nothing to thank you for." "Ah! you won't thank me. Then I will tell every one how you have treated me, and, moreover, that you are a blackguard." "Then I shall have something to tell you, drunkard that you are," interrupts Stepka, who at last loses patience. "Listen and pay attention. Let us divide the world in two. You shall take one half, I the other. Then I shall have peace." "Then you will not give me back my money?" "What money do you want, drunkard?" "My money. It is the sweat of my brow; the labour of my hands. You will be sorry for it in the other world. You will be roasted for those five kopecks." "Go to the devil." "What are you driving me for? Am I a horse?" "Be off, be off." "Blackguard!" "Convict!" And the insults exchanged were worse than they had been before the visit to the drink-seller. Two friends are seated separately on two camp-bedsteads. One is tall, vigorous, fleshy, with a red face--a regular butcher. He is on the point of weeping; for he has been much moved. The other is tall, thin, conceited, with an immense nose, which always seems to have a cold, and little blue eyes fixed upon the ground. He is a clever, well-bred man, and was formerly a secretary. He treats his friend with a little disdain, which the latter cannot stand. They have been drinking together all day. "You have taken a liberty with me," cries the stout one, as with his left hand he shakes the head of his companion. To take a liberty signifies, in convict language, to strike. This convict, formerly a non-commissioned officer, envies in secret the elegance of his neighbour, and endeavours to make up for his material grossness by refined conversation. "I tell you, you are wrong," says the secretary, in a dogmatic tone, with his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, and without looking at his companion. "You struck me. Do you hear?" continues the other, still shaking his dear friend. "You are the only man in the world I care for; but you shall not take a liberty with me." "Confess, my dear fellow," replies the secretary, "that all this is the result of too much drink." The corpulent friend falls back with a stagger, looks stupidly with his drunken eyes at the secretary, and suddenly, with all his might, sends his fist into the secretary's thin face. Thus terminates the day's friendship. The dear friend disappears beneath the camp-bedstead unconscious. One of my acquaintances enters the barracks. He is a convict of the special section, very good-natured, and gay, far from stupid, and jocular without malice. He is the man who, on my arrival at the convict prison, was looking out for a rich peasant, who spoke so much of his self-respect, and ended by drinking my tea. He was forty years old, had enormous lips, and a fat, fleshy, red nose. He held a balalaika, and struck negligently its strings. He was followed by a little convict, with a large head, whom I knew very little, and to whom no one paid any attention. Now that he was drunk he had attached himself to Vermaloff, and followed him like his shadow, at the same time gesticulating and striking with his fist the wall and the camp-bedsteads. He was almost in tears. Vermaloff did not notice him any more than if he had not existed. The most curious point was that these two men in no way resembled one another, neither by their occupations nor by their disposition. They belonged to different sections, and lived in separate barracks. The little convict was named Bulkin. Vermaloff smiled when he saw me seated by the stove. He stopped at some distance from me, reflected for a moment, tottered, and then came towards me with an affected swagger. Then he swept the strings of his instrument, and sung, or recited, tapping at the same time with his boot on the ground, the following chant: My darling! With her full, fair face, Sings like a nightingale; In her satin dress, With its brilliant trimming, She is very fair. This song excited Bulkin in an extraordinary manner. He agitated his arms, and shrieked out to every one: "He lies, my friends; he lies like a quack doctor. There is not a shadow of truth in what he sings." "My respects to the venerable Alexander Petrovitch," said Vermaloff, looking at me with a knowing smile. I fancied even he wished to embrace me. He was drunk. As for the expression, "My respects to the venerable so-and-so," it is employed by the common people throughout Siberia, even when addressed to a young man of twenty. To call a man old is a sign of respect, and may amount even to flattery. "Well, Vermaloff, how are you?" I replied. "So, so. Nothing to boast of. Those who really enjoy the holiday have been drinking since early morning." Vermaloff did not speak very distinctly. "He lies; he lies again," said Bulkin, striking the camp-bedsteads with a sort of despair. One might have sworn that Vermaloff had given his word of honour not to pay any attention to him. That was really the most comic thing about it; for Bulkin had not quitted him for one moment since the morning. Always with him, he quarrelled with Vermaloff about every word; wringing his hands, and striking with his fists against the wall and the camp bedsteads till he made them bleed, he suffered visibly from his conviction that Vermaloff "lied like a quack doctor." If Bulkin had had hair on his head, he would certainly have torn it in his grief, in his profound mortification. One might have thought that he had made himself responsible for Vermaloff's actions, and that all Vermaloff's faults troubled his conscience. The amusing part of it was that Vermaloff continued. "He lies! He lies! He lies!" cried Bulkin. "What can it matter to you?" replied the convicts, with a laugh. "I must tell you, Alexander Petrovitch, that I was very good-looking when I was a young man, and the young girls were very fond of me," said Vermaloff suddenly. "He lies! He lies!" again interrupted Bulkin, with a groan. The convicts burst into a laugh. "And well I got myself up to please them. I had a red shirt, and broad trousers of cotton velvet. I was happy in those days. I got up when I liked; did whatever I pleased. In fact----" "He lies," declared Bulkin. "I inherited from my father a stone house, two storeys high. Within two years I made away with the two storeys; nothing remained to me but the street door. Well, what of that. Money comes and goes like a bird." "He lies!" declared Bulkin, more resolutely than before. "Then when I had spent all, I sent a letter to my relations, that they might send me some money. They said that I had set their will at naught, that I was disrespectful. It is now seven years since I sent off my letter." "And any answer?" I asked, with a smile. "No," he replied, also laughing, and almost putting his nose in my face. He then informed me that he had a sweetheart. "You a sweetheart?" "Onufriel said to me the other day: 'My young woman is marked with small-pox, and as ugly as you like; but she has plenty of dresses, while yours, though she may be pretty, is a beggar.'" "Is that true?" "Certainly, she is a beggar," he answered. He burst into a laugh, and the others laughed with him. Every one indeed knew that he had a _liaison_ with a beggar woman, to whom he gave ten kopecks every six months. "Well, what do you want with me?" I said to him, wishing at last to get rid of him. He remained silent, and then, looking at me in the most insinuating manner, said: "Could not you let me have enough money to buy half-a-pint? I have drunk nothing but tea the whole day," he added, as he took from me the money I offered him; "and tea affects me in such a manner that I am afraid of becoming asthmatic. It gives me the wind." When he took the money I offered him, the despair of Bulkin went beyond all bounds. He gesticulated like a man possessed. "Good people all," he cried, "the man lies. Everything he says--everything is a lie." "What can it matter to you?" cried the convicts, astonished at his goings on. "You are possessed." "I will not allow him to lie," continued Bulkin, rolling his eyes, and striking his fist with energy on the boards. "He shall not lie." Every one laughed. Vermaloff bowed to me after receiving the money, and hastened, with many grimaces, to go to the drink-seller. Then only he noticed Bulkin. "Come!" he said to him, as if the latter were indispensable for the execution of some design. "Idiot!" he added, with contempt, as Bulkin passed before him. But enough about this tumultuous scene, which, at last, came to an end. The convicts went to sleep heavily on their camp-bedsteads. They spoke and raged during their sleep more than on the other nights. Here and there they still continued to play at cards. The festival looked forward to with such impatience was now over, and to-morrow the daily work, the hard labour, will begin again. CHAPTER XII. THE PERFORMANCE. On the evening of the third day of the holidays took place our first theatrical performance. There had been much trouble about organising it. But those who were to act had taken everything upon themselves, and the other convicts knew nothing about the representation except that it was to take place. We did not even know what was to be played. The actors, while they were at work, were always thinking how they could get together the greatest number of costumes. Whenever I met Baklouchin he snapped his fingers with satisfaction, but told me nothing. I think the Major was in a good humour; but we did not know for certain whether he knew what was going on or not, whether he had authorised it, or whether he had determined to shut his eyes and be silent, after assuring himself that everything would take place quietly. He had heard, I fancy, of the meditated representation, and said nothing about it, lest he should spoil everything. The soldiers would be disorderly, or would get drunk, unless they had something to divert them. Thus I think the Major must have reasoned, for it will be only natural to do so. I may add that if the convicts had not got up a performance during the holidays, or done something of the kind, the administration would have been obliged to organise some sort of amusement; but as our Major was distinguished by ideas directly opposed to those of other people, I take a great responsibility on myself in saying that he knew of our project and authorised it. A man like him must always be crushing and stifling some one, taking something away, depriving some one of a right--in a word, for establishing order of this character he was known throughout the town. It mattered nothing to him that his exactions made the men rebellious. For such offences there were suitable punishments (there are some people who reason in this way), and with these rascals of convicts there was nothing to do but to treat them very severely, deal with them strictly according to law. These incapable executants of the law did not in the least understand that to apply the law without understanding its spirit is to provoke resistance. They are quite astonished that, in addition to the execution of the law, good sense and a sound head should be expected from them. The last condition would appear to them quite superfluous; to require such a thing is vexatious, intolerant. However this may be, the Sergeant-Major made no objection to the performance, and that was all the convicts wanted. I may say in all truth that if throughout the holidays there were no disorders in the convict prison, no sanguinary quarrels, no robberies, that must be attributed to the convicts being permitted to organise their performance. I saw with my own eyes how they got out of the way of those of their companions who had drunk too much, and how they prevented quarrels on the ground that the representation would be forbidden. The non-commissioned officer made the prisoners give their word of honour that they would behave well, and that all would go off quietly. They gave it with pleasure, and kept their promise religiously. They were much flattered at finding their word of honour accepted. Let me add that the representation cost nothing, absolutely nothing, to the authorities, who were not called upon to spend a farthing. The theatre could be put up and taken down within a quarter of an hour; and, in case an order stopping the performance suddenly arrived, the scenery could have been put away in a second. The costumes were concealed in the convicts' boxes; but first of all let me say how our theatre was constructed, what were the costumes, and what the bill, that is to say, the pieces that were to be played. To tell the truth, there was no written playbill, not, at least, for the first representation. It was ready only for the second and third. Baklouchin composed it for the officers and other distinguished visitors who might deign to honour the performance with their presence, including the officer of the guard, the officer of the watch, and an Engineer officer. It was in honour of these that the playbill was written out. It was supposed that the reputation of our theatre would extend to the fortress, and even to the town, especially as there was no theatre at N----: a few amateur performances, but nothing more. The convicts delighted in the smallest success, and boasted of it like children. "Who knows?" they said to one another; "when our chiefs hear of it they will perhaps come and see. Then they will know what convicts are worth, for this is not a performance given by soldiers, but a genuine piece played by genuine actors; nothing like it could be seen anywhere in the town. General Abrosimoff had a representation at his house, and it is said he will have another. Well, they may beat us in the matter of costumes, but as for the dialogue that is a very different thing. The Governor himself will perhaps hear of it, and--who knows?--he may come himself." They had no theatre in the town. In a word, the imagination of the convicts, above all after their first success, went so far as to make them think that rewards would be distributed to them, and that their period of hard labour would be shortened. A moment afterwards they were the first to laugh at this fancy. In a word, they were children, true children, when they were forty years of age. I knew in a general way the subjects of the pieces that were to be represented, although there was no bill. The title of the first was _Philatka and Miroshka Rivals_. Baklouchin boasted to me, at least a week before the performance, that the part of Philatka, which he had assigned to himself, would be played in such a manner that nothing like it had ever been seen, even on the St. Petersburg stage. He walked about in the barracks puffed up with boundless importance. If now and then he declaimed a speech from his part in the theatrical style, every one burst out laughing, whether the speech was amusing or not; they laughed because he had forgotten himself. It must be admitted that the convicts, as a body, were self-contained and full of dignity; the only ones who got enthusiastic at Baklouchin's tirades were the young ones, who had no false shame, or those who were much looked up to, and whose authority was so firmly established that they were not afraid to commit themselves. The others listened silently, without blaming or contradicting, but they did their best to show that the performance left them indifferent. It was not until the very last moment, the very day of the representation, that every one manifested genuine interest in what our companions had undertaken. "What," was the general question, "would the Major say? Would the performance succeed as well as the one given two years before?" etc., etc. Baklouchin assured me that all the actors would be quite at home on the stage, and that there would even be a curtain. Sirotkin was to play a woman's part. "You will see how well I look in women's clothes," he said. The Lady Bountiful was to have a dress with skirts and trimmings, besides a parasol; while her husband, the Lord of the Manor, was to wear an officer's uniform, with epaulettes, and a cane in his hand. The second piece that was to be played was entitled, _Kedril, the Glutton_. The title puzzled me much, but it was useless to ask any questions about it. I could only learn that the piece was not printed; it was a manuscript copy obtained from a retired non-commissioned officer in the town, who had doubtless formerly participated in its representation on some military stage. We have, indeed, in the distant towns and governments, a number of pieces of this kind, which, I believe, are perfectly unknown and have never been printed, but which appear to have grown up of themselves, in connection with the popular theatre, in certain zones of Russia. I have spoken of the popular theatre. It would be a good thing if our investigators of popular literature would take the trouble to make careful researches as to this popular theatre which exists, and which, perhaps, is not so insignificant as may be thought. I cannot think that everything I saw on the stage of our convict prison was the work of our convicts. It must have sprung from old traditions handed down from generation to generation, and preserved among the soldiers, the workmen in industrial towns, and even the shopkeepers in some poor, out-of-the-way places. These traditions have been preserved in some villages and some Government towns by the servants of the large landed proprietors. I even believe that copies of many old pieces have been multiplied by these servants of the nobility. The old Muscovite proprietors and nobles had their own theatres, in which their servants used to play. Thence comes our popular theatre, the originals of which are beyond discussion. As for _Kedril, the Glutton_, in spite of my lively curiosity, I could learn nothing about it, except that demons appeared on the stage and carried Kedril away to hell. What did the name of Kedril signify? Why was he called Kedril and not Cyril? Was the name Russian or foreign? I could not resolve this question. It was announced that the representation would terminate with a musical pantomime. All this promised to be very curious. The actors were fifteen in number, all vivacious men. They were very energetic, got up a number of rehearsals which sometimes took place behind the barracks, kept away from the others, and gave themselves mysterious airs. They evidently wished to surprise us with something extraordinary and unexpected. On work days the barracks were shut very early as night approached, but an exception was made during the Christmas holidays, when the padlocks were not put to the gates until the evening retreat--nine o'clock. This favour had been granted specially in view of the play. During the whole duration of the holidays a deputation was sent every evening to the officer of the guard very humbly "to permit the representation and not to shut at the usual hour." It was added that there had been previous representations, and that nothing disorderly had occurred at any of them. The officer of the guard must have reasoned as follows: There was no disorder, no infraction of discipline at the previous performance, and the moment they give their word that to-night's performance shall take place in the same manner, they mean to be their own police--the most rigorous police of all. Moreover, he knew well that if he took it upon himself to forbid the representation, these fellows (who knows, and with convicts?) would have committed some offence which would have placed the officer of the guard in a very difficult position. One final reason insured his consent: To mount guard is horribly tiresome, and if he authorised the performance he would see the play acted, not by soldiers, but by convicts, a curious set of people. It would certainly be interesting, and he had a right to be present at it. In case the superior officer arrived and asked for the officer of the guard, he would be told that the latter had gone to count the convicts and close the barracks; an answer which could easily be made, and which could not be disproved. That is why our superintendents authorised the performance; and throughout the holidays the barracks were kept open each evening until the retreat. The convicts had known beforehand that they would meet with no opposition from the officer of the guard. They were quite quiet about him. Towards six o'clock Petroff came to look for me, and we went together to the theatre. Nearly all the prisoners of our barracks were there, with the exception of the "old believer" from Tchernigoff, and the Poles. The latter did not decide to be present until the last day of the representation, the 4th of January, after they had been assured that everything would be managed in a becoming manner. The haughtiness of the Poles irritated our convicts. Accordingly they were received on the 4th of January with formal politeness, and conducted to the best places. As for the Circassians and Isaiah Fomitch, the play was for them a genuine delight. Isaiah Fomitch gave three kopecks each time, except the last, when he placed ten kopecks on the plate; and how happy he looked! The actors had decided that each spectator should give what he thought fit. The receipts were to cover the expenses, and anything beyond was to go to the actors. Petroff assured me that I should be allowed to have one of the best places, however full the theatre might be; first, because being richer than the others, there was a probability of my giving more; and, secondly, because I knew more about acting than any one else. What he had foreseen took place. But let me first describe the theatre. The barrack of the military section, which had been turned into the theatre, was fifteen feet long. From the court-yard one entered, first an ante-chamber, and afterwards the barrack itself. The building was arranged, as I have already mentioned, in a particular manner, the beds being placed against the wall, so as to leave an open space in the middle. One half of the barrack was reserved for the spectators, while the other, which communicated with the second building, formed the stage. What astonished me directly I entered, was the curtain, which was about ten feet long, and divided the barrack into two. It was indeed a marvel, for it was painted in oil, and represented trees, tunnels, ponds, and stars. It was made of pieces of linen, old and new, given by the convicts; shirts, the bandages which our peasants wrap round their feet in lieu of socks, all sewn together well or ill, and forming together an immense sheet. Where there was not enough linen, it had been replaced by writing paper, taken sheet by sheet from the various office bureaus. Our painters (among whom we had our Bruloff) had painted it all over, and the effect was very remarkable. This luxurious curtain delighted the convicts, even the most sombre and most morose. These, however, like the others, as soon as the play began, showed themselves mere children. They were all pleased and satisfied with a certain satisfaction of vanity. The theatre was lighted with candle ends. Two benches, which had been brought from the kitchen, were placed before the curtain, together with three or four large chairs, borrowed from the non-commissioned officers' room. These chairs were for the officers, should they think fit to honour the performance. As for the benches, they were for the non-commissioned officers, engineers, clerks, directors of the works, and all the immediate superiors of the convicts who had not officer's rank, and who had come perhaps to take a look at the representation. In fact, there was no lack of visitors. According to the days, they came in greater or smaller numbers, while for the last representation there was not a single place unoccupied on the benches. At the back the convicts stood crowded together; standing up out of respect to the visitors, and dressed in their vests, or in their short pelisses, in spite of the suffocating heat. As might have been expected, the place was too small; so all the prisoners stood up, heaped together--above all in the last rows. The camp-bedsteads were all occupied; and there were some amateurs who disputed constantly behind the stage in the other barrack, and who viewed the performance from the back. I was asked to go forward, and Petroff with me, close to the benches, whence a good view could be obtained. They looked upon me as a good judge, a connoisseur, who had seen many other theatres. The convicts remarked that Baklouchin had often consulted me, and that he had shown deference to my advice. Consequently they thought that I ought to be treated with honour, and to have one of the best places. These men are vain and frivolous, but only on the surface. They laughed at me when I was at work, because I was a poor workman. Almazoff had a right to despise us gentlemen, and to boast of his superior skill in pounding the alabaster. His laughter and raillery were directed against our origin, for we belonged by birth to the caste of his former masters, of whom he could not preserve a good recollection; but here at the theatre these same men made way for me; for they knew that about this matter I knew more than they did. Those, even, who were not at all well disposed towards me, were glad to hear me praise the performance, and gave way to me without the least servility. I judged now by my impressions of that time. I understood that in this new view of theirs there was no lowering of themselves; rather a sentiment of their own dignity. The most striking characteristic of our people is its conscientiousness, and its love of justice; no false vanity, no sly ambition to reach the first rank without being entitled to do so; such faults are foreign to our people. Take it from its rough shell, and you will perceive, if you study it without prejudice, attentively, and close at hand, qualities which you would never have suspected. Our sages have very little to teach our people. I will even say more; they might take lessons from it. Petroff had told me innocently, on taking me into the theatre, that they would pass me to the front, because they expected more money from me. There were no fixed prices for the places. Each one gave what he liked, and what he could. Nearly every one placed a piece of money in the plate when it was handed round. Even if they had passed me forward in the hope that I should give more than others, was there not in that a certain feeling of personal dignity? "You are richer than I am. Go to the first row. We are all equal here, it is true; but you pay more, and the actors prefer a spectator like you. Occupy the first place then, for we are not here with money, and must arrange ourselves anyhow." What noble pride in this mode of action! In final analysis not love of money, but self-respect. There was little esteem for money among us. I do not remember that one of us ever lowered himself to obtain money. Some men used to make up to me, but from love of cunning and of fun rather than in the hope of obtaining any benefit. I do not know whether I explain myself clearly. I am, in any case, forgetting the performance. Let me return to it. Before the rise of the curtain, the room presented a strange and animated look. In the first place, the crowd pressed, crushed, jammed together on all sides, but impatient, full of expectation, every face glowing with delight. In the last ranks was the grovelling, confused mass of convicts. Many of them had brought with them logs of wood, which they placed against the wall, on which they climbed up. In this fatiguing position they paused to rest themselves by placing both hands on the shoulders of their companions, who seemed quite at ease. Others stood on their toes, with their heels against the stove, and thus remained throughout the representation, supported by those around them. Massed against the camp-bedsteads was another compact crowd; for here were some of the best places of all. Five convicts had hoisted themselves up to the top of the stove, whence they had a commanding view. These fortunate ones were extremely happy. Elsewhere swarmed the late arrivals, unable to find good places. Every one conducted himself in a becoming manner, without making any noise. Each one wished to show advantageously before the distinguished persons who were visiting us. Simple and natural was the expression of these red faces, damp with perspiration, as the rise of the curtain was eagerly expected. What a strange look of infinite delight, of unmixed pleasure, was painted on these scarred faces, these branded foreheads, so dark and menacing at ordinary times! They were all without their caps, and as I looked back at them from my place, it seemed to me that their heads were entirely shaved. Suddenly the signal is given, and the orchestra begins to play. This orchestra deserves a special mention. It consisted of eight musicians: two violins, one of which was the property of a convict, while the other had been borrowed from outside; three balalaiki, made by the convicts themselves; two guitars, and a tambourine. The violins sighed and shrieked, and the guitars were worthless, but the balalaiki were remarkably good; and the agile fingering of the artists would have done honour to the cleverest executant. They played scarcely anything but dance tunes. At the most exciting passages they struck with their fingers on the body of their instruments. The tone, the execution of the motive, were always original and distinctive. One of the guitarists knew his instrument thoroughly. It was the gentleman who had killed his father. As for the tambourinist, he really did wonders. Now he whirled round the disk, balanced on one of his fingers; now he rubbed the parchment with his thumb, and brought from it a countless multitude of notes, now dull, now brilliant. At last two harmonigers join the orchestra. I had no idea until then of all that could be done with these popular and vulgar instruments. I was astonished. The harmony, but, above all, the expression, the very conception of the motive, were admirably rendered. I then understood perfectly, and for the first time, the remarkable boldness, the striking abandonment, which are expressed in our popular dance tunes, and our village songs. At last the curtain rose. Every one made a movement. Those who were at the back raised themselves upon the point of their feet; some one fell down from his log. At once there were looks that enjoined silence. The performance now began. I was seated not far from Ali, who was in the midst of the group formed by his brothers and the other Circassians. They had a passionate love of the theatre, and did not miss one of our evenings. I have remarked that all the Mohammedans, Circassians, and so on, are fond of all kinds of representations. Near them was Isaiah Fomitch, quite in a state of ecstasy. As soon as the curtain rose he was all ears and eyes; his countenance expressed an expectation of something marvellous. I should have been grieved had he been disappointed. The charming face of Ali shone with a childish joy, so pure that I was quite happy to behold it. Involuntarily, whenever a general laugh echoed an amusing remark, I turned towards him to see his countenance. He did not notice it, he had something else to do. Near him, placed on the left, was a convict, already old, sombre, discontented, and always grumbling. He also had noticed Ali, and I saw him cast furtive glances more than once towards him, so charming was the young Circassian. The prisoners always called him Ali Simeonitch, without my knowing why. In the first piece, _Philatka and Miroshka_, Baklouchin, in the part of Philatka, was really marvellous. He played his rôle to perfection. It could be seen that he had weighed each speech, each movement. He managed to give to each word, each gesture, a meaning which responded perfectly to the character of the personage. Apart from the conscientious study he had made of the character, he was gay, simple, natural, irresistible. If you had seen Baklouchin you would certainly have said that he was a genuine actor, an actor by vocation, and of great talent. I have seen Philatka several times at the St. Petersburg and Moscow theatres, and I declare that none of our celebrated actors was equal to Baklouchin in this part. They were peasants, from no matter what country, and not true Russian moujiks. Moreover, their desire to be peasant-like was too apparent. Baklouchin was animated by emulation; for it was known that the convict Potsiakin was to play the part of Kedril in the second piece, and it was assumed--I do not know why--that the latter would show more talent than Baklouchin. The latter was as vexed by this preference as a child. How many times did he not come to me during the last days to tell me all he felt! Two hours before the representation he was attacked by fever. When the audience burst out laughing, and called out "Bravo, Baklouchin! what a fellow you are!" his figure shone with joy, and true inspiration could be read in his eyes. The scene of the kisses between Kiroshka and Philatka, in which the latter calls out to the daughter, "Wife, your mouth," and then wipes his own, was wonderfully comic. Every one burst out laughing. What interested me was the spectators. They were all at their ease, and gave themselves up frankly to their mirth. Cries of approbation became more and more numerous. A convict nudged his companion with his elbow, and hastily communicated his impressions, without even troubling himself to know who was by his side. When a comic song began, one man might be seen agitating his arms violently, as if to engage his companions to laugh; after which he turned suddenly towards the stage. A third smacked his tongue against his palate, and could not keep quiet a moment; but as there was not room for him to change his position, he hopped first on one leg, then on the other; towards the end of the piece the general gaiety attained its climax. I exaggerate nothing. Imagine the convict prison, chains, captivity, long years of confinement, of task-work, of monotonous life, falling away drop by drop like rain on an autumn day; imagine all this despair in presence of permission given to the convicts to amuse themselves, to breathe freely for an hour, to forget their nightmare, and to organise a play--and what a play! one that excited the envy and admiration of our town. "Fancy those convicts!" people said: everything interested them, take the costumes for instance. It seemed very strange, but then to see, Nietsvitaeff, or Baklouchin, in a different costume from the one they had worn for so many years. He is a convict, a genuine convict, whose chains ring when he walks; and there he is, out on the stage with a frock-coat, and a round hat, and a cloak, like any ordinary civilian. He has put on hair, moustaches. He takes a red handkerchief from his pocket and shakes it, like a real nobleman. What enthusiasm is created! The "good landlord" arrives in an aide-de-camp uniform, a very old one, it is true, but with epaulettes, and a cocked hat. The effect produced was indescribable. There had been two candidates for this costume, and--will it be believed?--they had quarrelled like two little schoolboys as to which of them should play the part. Both wanted to appear in military uniform with epaulettes. The other actors separated them, and, by a majority of voices, the part was entrusted to Nietsvitaeff; not because he was more suited to it than the other, and that he bore a greater resemblance to a nobleman, but only because he had assured them all that he would have a cane, and that he would twirl it and rap it out grand, like a true nobleman--a dandy of the latest fashion--which was more than Vanka and Ospiety could do, seeing they have never known any noblemen. In fact, when Nietsvitaeff went to the stage with his wife, he did nothing but draw circles on the floor with his light bamboo cane, evidently thinking that this was the sign of the best breeding, of supreme elegance. Probably in his childhood, when he was still a barefooted child, he had been attracted by the skill of some proprietor in twirling his cane, and this impression had remained in his memory, although thirty years afterwards. Nietsvitaeff was so occupied with his process that he saw no one, he gave the replies in his dialogue without even raising his eyes. The most important thing for him was the end of his cane, and the circles he drew with it. The Lady Bountiful was also very remarkable; she came on in an old worn-out muslin dress, which looked like a rag. Her arms and neck were bare. She had a little calico cap on her head, with strings under her chin, an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a fan of coloured paper, with which she constantly fanned herself. This great lady was welcomed with a wild laugh; she herself, too, was unable to restrain herself, and burst out more than once. The part was filled by the convict Ivanoff. As for Sirotkin, in his girl's dress, he looked exceedingly well. The couplets were all well sung. In a word, the piece was played to the satisfaction of every one; not the least hostile criticism was passed--who, indeed, was there to criticise? The air, "Sieni moi Sieni," was played again by way of overture, and the curtain again went up. _Kedril, the Glutton_, was now to be played. Kedril is a sort of Don Juan. This comparison may justly be made, for the master and the servant are both carried away by devils at the end of the piece; and the piece, as the convicts had it, was played quite correctly; but the beginning and the end must have been lost, for it had neither head nor tail. The scene is laid in an inn somewhere in Russia. The innkeeper introduces into a room a nobleman wearing a cloak and a battered round hat; the valet, Kedril, follows his master; he carries a valise, and a fowl rolled up in blue paper; he wears a short pelisse and a footman's cap. It is this fellow who is the glutton. The convict Potsiakin, the rival of Baklouchin, played this part, while the part of the nobleman was filled by Ivanoff, the same who played the great lady in the first piece. The innkeeper (Nietsvitaeff) warns the nobleman that the room is haunted by demons, and goes away; the nobleman is interested and preoccupied; he murmurs aloud that he has known that for a long time, and orders Kedril to unpack his things and to get supper ready. Kedril is a glutton and a coward. When he hears of devils he turns pale and trembles like a leaf; he would like to run away, but is afraid of his master; besides, he is hungry, he is voluptuous, he is sensual, stupid, though cunning in his way, and, as before said, a poltroon; he cheats his master every moment, though he fears him like fire. This type of servant is a remarkable one in which may be recognised the principal features of the character of Leporello, but indistinct and confused. The part was played in really superior style by Potsiakin, whose talent was beyond discussion, surpassing as it did in my opinion that of Baklouchin himself. But when the next day I spoke to Baklouchin I concealed my impression from him, knowing that it would give him bitter pain. As for the convict who played the part of the nobleman, it was not bad. Everything he said was without meaning, incomparable to anything I had ever heard before; but his enunciation was pure and his gestures becoming. While Kedril occupies himself with the valise, his master walks up and down, and announces that from that day forth he means to lead a quiet life. Kedril listens, makes grimaces, and amuses the spectators by his reflections "aside." He has no pity for his master, but he has heard of devils, would like to know what they are like, and thereupon questions him. The nobleman replies that some time ago, being in danger of death, he asked succour from hell. Then the devils aided and delivered him, but the term of his liberty has expired; and if the devils come that evening, it will be to exact his soul, as has been agreed in their compact. Kedril begins to tremble in earnest, but his master does not lose courage, and orders him to prepare the supper. Hearing of victuals, Kedril revives. Taking out a bottle of wine, he taps it on his own account. The audience expands with laughter; but the door grates on its hinges, the winds shakes the shutters, Kedril trembles, and hastily, almost without knowing what he is doing, puts into his mouth an enormous piece of fowl, which he is unable to swallow. There is another gust of wind. "Is it ready?" cries the master, still walking backwards and forwards in his room. "Directly, sir. I am preparing it," says Kedril, who sits down, and, taking care that his master does not see him, begins to eat the supper himself. The audience is evidently charmed with the cunning of the servant, who so cleverly makes game of the nobleman; and it must be admitted that Poseikin, the representative of the part, deserved high praise. He pronounced admirably the words: "Directly, sir. I--am--preparing--it." Kedril eats gradually, and at each mouthful trembles lest his master shall see him. Every time that the nobleman turns round Kedril hides under the table, holding the fowl in his hand. When he has appeased his hunger, he begins to think of his master. "Kedril, will it soon be ready?" cries the nobleman. "It is ready now," replies Kedril boldly, when all at once he perceives that there is scarcely anything left. Nothing remains but one leg. The master, still sombre and pre-occupied, notices nothing, and takes his seat, while Kedril places himself behind him with a napkin on his arm. Every word, every gesture, every grimace from the servant, as he turns towards the audience to laugh at his master's expense, excites the greatest mirth among the convicts. Just at the moment when the young nobleman begins to eat, the devils arrive. They resemble nothing human or terrestrial. The side-door opens, and the phantom appears dressed entirely in white, with a lighted lantern in lieu of a head, and with a scythe in its hand. Why the white dress, scythe, and lantern? No one could tell me, and the matter did not trouble the convicts. They were sure that this was the way it ought to be done. The master comes forward courageously to meet the apparitions, and calls out to them that he is ready, and that they can take him. But Kedril, as timid as a hare, hides under the table, not forgetting, in spite of his fright, to take a bottle with him. The devils disappear, Kedril comes out of his hiding-place, and the master begins to eat his fowl. Three devils enter the room, and seize him to take him to hell. "Save me, Kedril," he cries. But Kedril has something else to think of. He has now with him in his hiding-place not only the bottle, but also the plate of fowl and the bread. He is now alone. The demons are far away, and his master also. Kedril gets from under the table, looks all round, and suddenly his face beams with joy. He winks, like the rogue he is, sits down in his master's place, and whispers to the audience: "I have now no master but myself." Every one laughs at seeing him masterless; and he says, always in an under-tone and with a confidential air: "The devils have carried him off!" The enthusiasm of the spectators is now without limits. The last phrase was uttered with such roguery, with such a triumphant grimace, that it was impossible not to applaud. But Kedril's happiness does not last long. Hardly has he taken up the bottle of wine, and poured himself out a large glass, which he carries to his lips, than the devils return, slip behind, and seize him. Kedril howls like one possessed, but he dare not turn round. He wishes to defend himself, but cannot, for in his hands he holds the bottle and the glass, from which he will not separate. His eyes starting from his head, his mouth gaping with horror, he remains for a moment looking at the audience with a comic expression of cowardice that might have been painted. At last he is dragged, carried away. His arms and legs are agitated in every direction, but he still sticks to his bottle. He also shrieks, and his cries are still heard when he has been carried from the stage. The curtain falls amid general laughter, and every one is delighted. The orchestra now attacks the famous dance tune Kamarinskaia. First it is played softly, pianissimo; but little by little, the motive is developed and played more lightly. The time is quickened, and the wood, as well as the strings of the balalaiki, is made to sound. The musicians enter thoroughly into the spirit of the dance. Glinka [who has arranged the Kamarinskaia in the most ingenious manner, and with harmonies of his own devising, for full orchestra] should have heard it as it was executed in our Convict Prison. The pantomimic musical accompaniment is begun; and throughout the Kamarinskaia is played. The stage represents the interior of a hut. A miller and his wife are sitting down, one mending clothes, the other spinning flax. Sirotkin plays the part of the wife, and Nietsvitaeff that of the husband. Our scenery was very poor. In this piece, as in the preceding ones, imagination had to supply what was wanting in reality. Instead of a wall at the back of the stage, there was a carpet or a blanket; on the right, shabby screens; while on the left, where the stage was not closed, the camp-bedsteads could be seen; but the spectators were not exacting, and were willing to imagine all that was wanting. It was an easy task for them; all convicts are great dreamers. Directly they are told "this is a garden," it is for them a garden. Informed that "this is a hut," they accept the definition without difficulty. To them it is a hut. Sirotkin was charming in a woman's dress. The miller finishes his work, takes his cap and his whip, goes up to his wife, and gives her to understand by signs, that if during his absence she makes the mistake of receiving any one, she will have to deal with him--and he shows her his whip. The wife listens, and nods affirmatively her head. The whip is evidently known to her; the hussey has often deserved it. The husband goes out. Hardly has he turned upon his heel, than his wife shakes her fist at him. There is a knock; the door opens, and in comes a neighbour, miller also by trade. He wears a beard, is in a kuftan, and he brings as a present a red handkerchief. The woman smiles. Another knock is heard at the door. Where shall she hide him? She conceals him under the table, and takes up her distaff again. Another admirer now presents himself--a farrier in the uniform of a non-commissioned officer. Until now the pantomime had gone on capitally; the gestures of the actors being irreproachable. It was astounding to see these improvised players going through their parts in so correct a manner; and involuntarily one said to oneself: "What a deal of talent is lost in our Russia, left without use in our prisons and places of exile!" The convict who played the part of the farrier had, doubtless, taken part in a performance at some provincial theatre, or had played with amateurs. It seemed to me, in any case, that our actors knew nothing of acting as an art, and bore themselves in the meanest manner. When it was his turn to appear, he came on like one of the classical heroes of the old repertory--taking a long stride with one foot before he raised the other from the ground, throwing back his head on the upper part of his body and casting proud looks around him. If such a gait was ridiculous on the part of classical heroes, still more so was it when the actor was representing a comic character. But the audience thought it quite natural, and accepted the actor's triumphant walk as a necessary fact, without criticising it. A moment after the entry of the second admirer there is another knock at the door. The wife loses her head. Where is the farrier to be concealed? In her big box. It fortunately is open. The farrier disappears within it and the lid falls upon him. The new arrival is a Brahmin, in full costume. His entry is hailed by the spectators with a formidable laugh. This Brahmin is represented by the convict Cutchin, who plays the part perfectly, thanks, in a great measure, to a suitable physiognomy. He explains in the pantomime his love of the miller's wife, raises his hands to heaven, and then clasps them on his breast. There is now another knock at the door--a vigorous one this time. There could be no mistake about it. It is the master of the house. The miller's wife loses her head; the Brahmin runs wildly on all sides, begging to be concealed. She helps him to slip behind the cupboard, and begins to spin, and goes on spinning without thinking of opening the door. In her fright she gets the thread twisted, drops the spindle, and, in her agitation, makes the gesture of turning it when it is lying on the ground. Sirotkin represented perfectly this state of alarm. Then the miller kicks open the door and approaches his wife, whip in hand. He has seen everything, for he was spying outside; and he indicates by signs to his wife that she has three lovers concealed in the house. Then he searches them out. First, he finds the neighbour, whom he drives out with his fist. The frightened farrier tries to escape. He raises, with his head, the cover of the chest, and is at once seen. The miller thrashes him with his whip, and for once this gallant does not march in the classical style. The only one now remaining is the Brahmin, whom the husband seeks for some time without finding him. At last he discovers him in his corner behind the cupboard, bows to him politely, and then draws him by his beard into the middle of the stage. The Brahmin tries to defend himself, and cries out, "Accursed, accursed!"--the only words pronounced throughout the pantomime. But the husband will not listen to him, and, after settling accounts with him, turns to his wife. Seeing that her turn has come, she throws away both wheel and spindle, and runs out, causing an earthen pot to fall as she shakes the room in her fright. The convicts burst into a laugh, and Ali, without looking at me, takes my hand, and calls out, "See, see the Brahmin!" He cannot hold himself upright, so overpowering is his laugh. The curtain falls, and another song begins. There were two or three more, all broadly humorous and very droll. The convicts had not composed them themselves, but they had contributed something to them. Every actor improvised to such purpose that the part was a different one each evening. The pantomime ended with a ballet, in which there was a burial. The Brahmin went through various incantations over the corpse, and with effect. The dead man returns to life, and, in their joy, all present begin to dance. The Brahmin dances in Brahminical style with the dead man. This was the final scene. The convicts now separated, happy, delighted, and full of praise for the actors and gratitude towards the non-commissioned officers. There was not the least quarrel, and they all went to bed with peaceful hearts, to sleep with a sleep by no means familiar to them. This is no fantasy of my imagination, but the truth, the very truth. These unhappy men had been permitted to live for some moments in their own way, to amuse themselves in a human manner, to escape for a brief hour from their sad position as convicts; and a moral change was effected, at least for a time. The night is already quite dark. Something makes me shudder, and I awake. The "old believer" is still on the top of the high porcelain stove praying, and he will continue to pray until dawn. Ali is sleeping peacefully by my side. I remember that when he went to bed he was still laughing and talking about the theatre with his brothers. Little by little I began to remember everything; the preceding day, the Christmas holidays, and the whole month. I raised my head in fright and looked at my companions, who were sleeping by the trembling light of the candle provided by the authorities. I look at their unhappy countenances, their miserable beds; I view this nakedness, the wretchedness, and then convince myself that it is not a frightful night there, but a simple reality. Yes, it is a reality. I hear a groan. Some one has moved his arm and made his chains rattle. Another one is agitated in his dreams and speaks aloud, while the old grandfather is praying for the "Orthodox Christians." I listened to his prayer, uttered with regularity, in soft, rather drawling tones: "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon us." "Well, I am not here for ever, but only for a few years," I said to myself, and I again laid my head down on my pillow. Part II. CHAPTER I. THE HOSPITAL Shortly after the Christmas holidays I felt ill, and had to go to our military hospital, which stood apart at about half a verst (one-third of a mile) from the fortress. It was a one-storey building, very long, and painted yellow. Every summer a great quantity of ochre was expended in brightening it up. In the immense court-yard stood buildings, including those where the chief physicians lived, while the principal building contained only wards intended for the patients. There were a good many of them, but as only two were reserved for the convicts, these latter were nearly always full, above all in summer, so that it was often necessary to bring the beds closer together. These wards were occupied by "unfortunates" of all kinds: first by our own, then by military prisoners, previously incarcerated in the guard-houses. There were others, again, who had not yet been tried, or who were passing through. In this hospital, too, were invalids from the Disciplinary Company, a melancholy institution for bringing together soldiers of bad conduct, with a view to their correction. At the end of a year or two, they come back the most thorough-going rascals that the earth can endure. When a convict felt that he was ill, he told the non-commissioned officer, who wrote the man's name down on a card, which he then gave to him and sent him to the hospital under the escort of a soldier. On his arrival he was examined by a doctor, who authorised the convict to remain at the hospital if he was really ill. My name was duly written down, and towards one o'clock, when all my companions had started for their afternoon work, I went to the hospital. Every prisoner took with him such money and bread as he could (for food was not to be expected the first day), a little pipe, and pouch containing tobacco, with flint, steel, and match-paper. The convicts concealed these objects in their boots. On entering the hospital I experienced a feeling of curiosity, for a new aspect of life was now presented. The day was hot, cloudy, sad--one of those days when places like a hospital assume a particularly disagreeable and repulsive look. Myself and the soldier escorting me went into the entrance room, where there were two copper baths. There were two convicts waiting there with their warders. An assistant surgeon came in, looked at us with a careless and patronising air, and went away still more carelessly to announce our arrival to the physician on duty. Soon the physician arrived. He examined me, treating me in a very affable manner, and gave me a paper on which my name was inscribed. The ordinary physician of the wards reserved for the convicts was to make the diagnosis of my illness, to prescribe the fitting remedies, together with the necessary diet. I had already heard the convicts say that their doctors could not be too much praised. "They are fathers to us," they would say. I took my clothes off to put on another costume. Our clothes and linen were taken away, and we were given hospital linen instead, to which were added long stockings, slippers, cotton nightcaps, and a dressing-gown of a very thick brown cloth, which was lined, not with linen, but with filth. The dressing-gown was indeed very filthy, but I soon understood its utility. We were afterwards taken to the convict wards, which were at the head of a long corridor, very high, and very clean. The external cleanliness was quite satisfactory. Everything that could be seen shone; so, at least, it seemed to me, after the dirtiness of the convict prison. The two prisoners, whom I had found in the entrance hall, went to the left of the corridor, while I entered a room. Before the padlocked door walked a sentinel, musket on shoulder; and not far off was the soldier who was to replace him. The sergeant of the hospital guard ordered him to let me pass, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of a long narrow room, with beds to the number of twenty-two arranged against the walls. Three or four of them were still unoccupied. These wooden beds were painted green, and, as is notoriously the case with all hospital beds in Russia, were doubtless inhabited by bugs. I went into a corner by the side of the windows. There were very few prisoners dangerously ill and confined to their beds. The inmates of the hospital were, for the most part, convalescents, or men who were slightly indisposed. My new companions were stretched out on their couches, or walking about up and down between the rows of beds. There was just space enough for them to come and go. The atmosphere of the ward was stifling with the odour peculiar to hospitals. It was composed of various emanations, each more disagreeable than the other, and of the smell of drugs; though the stove was kept well heated all day long, my bed was covered with a counterpane, which I took off. The bed itself consisted of a cloth blanket lined with linen, and coarse sheets of more than doubtful cleanliness. By the side of the bed was a little table with a pitcher and a pewter mug, together with a diminutive napkin, which had been given to me. The table could, moreover, hold a tea-urn for those patients who were rich enough to drink tea. These men of means, however, were not very numerous. The pipes and the tobacco pouches--for all the patients smoked, even the consumptive ones--could be concealed beneath the mattress. The doctors and the other officials scarcely ever made searches, and when they surprised a patient with a pipe in his mouth, they pretended not to see. The patients, however, were very prudent, and smoked always at the back of the stove. They never smoked in their beds except at night, when no rounds were made by the officers commanding the hospital. Until then I had not been in any hospital in the character of patient, so that everything was quite new to me. I noticed that my entry had mystified some of the prisoners. They had heard of me, and all the inmates now looked upon me with that slight shade of superiority which recognised members of no matter what society show to one newly admitted among them. On my right was lying down a man committed for trial--an ex-secretary and the illegitimate son of a retired captain--accused of having made false money. He had been in the hospital nearly a year. He was not in the least ill, but he assured the doctors that he had an aneurism, and he so thoroughly convinced them that he escaped both the hard labour and the corporal punishment to which he had been sentenced. He was sent a year later to T----k, where he was attached to an asylum. He was a vigorous young fellow of eight-and-twenty, cunning, a self-confessed rogue, and something of a lawyer. He was intelligent, had easy manners, but was very presumptuous, and suffered from morbid self-esteem. Convinced that there was no one in the world a bit more honest or more just than himself, he did not consider himself at all guilty, and never kept this assurance to himself. This personage was the first to address me, and he questioned me with much curiosity. He initiated me into the ways of the hospital; and, of course, began by telling me that he was the son of a captain. He was very anxious that I should take him for a noble, or at least, for some one connected with the nobility. Soon afterwards an invalid from the Disciplinary Company came and told me that he knew a great many nobles who had been exiled; and, to convince me, he repeated to me their christian names and their patronymics. It was only necessary to see the face of this soldier to understand that he was lying abominably. He was named Tchekounoff, and came to pay court to me, because he suspected me of having money. When he saw a packet of tea and sugar, he at once offered me his services to make the water boil and to get me a tea-urn. M. D. S. K---- had promised to send me my own by one of the prisoners who worked in the hospital, but Tchekounoff arranged to get me one forthwith. He got me a tin vessel, in which he made the water boil; and, in a word, he showed such extraordinary zeal, that it drew down upon him bitter laughter from one of the patients, a consumptive man, whose bed was just opposite mine, Usteantseff by name. This was the soldier condemned to the rods, who, from fear, had swallowed a bottle of vodka, in which he had infused tobacco, this bringing on lung disease. I have spoken of him above. He had remained silent until now, stretched out on his bed, and breathing with difficulty. He looked at me all the time with a very serious air. He did not take his eyes from Tchekounoff, whose civility irritated him. His extraordinary gravity rendered his indignation comic. At last he could stand it no longer. "Look at this fellow! He has found his master," he said, stammering out the words with a voice strangled by weakness, for he had now not long to live. Tchekounoff, much annoyed, turned round. "Who is the fellow?" he asked, looking at Usteantseff, with contempt. "Why, you are a flunkey," replied Usteantseff, as confidently as if he had possessed the right of calling Tchekounoff to order. "I a fellow?" "Yes, you are a flunkey; a true flunkey. Listen, my good friends. He won't believe me. He is quite astonished, the brave fellow." "What can that matter to you? You see when they don't know how to make use of their hands that they are not accustomed to be without servants. Why should I not serve him, buffoon with a hairy snout?" "Who has a hairy snout?" "You!" "I have a hairy snout?" "Yes; certainly you have." "You are a nice fellow, you are. If I have a hairy snout, you have a face like a crow's egg." "Hairy snout! The merciful Lord has settled your account. You would do much better to keep quiet and die." "Why? I would rather prostrate myself before a boot than before a slipper. My father never prostrated himself, and never made me do so." He would have continued, but an attack of coughing convulsed him for some minutes. He spat blood, and a cold sweat broke out on his low forehead. If his cough had not prevented him from speaking, he would have continued to declaim. One could see that from his look; but in his powerlessness he could only move his hand, the result of which was that Tchekounoff spoke no more about the matter. I quite understood that the consumptive patient hated me much more than Tchekounoff. No one would have thought of being angry with him or of looking down upon him by reason of the services he was rendering me, and the few kopecks that he tried to get from me. Every one understood that he did it all in order to get himself a little money. The Russian people are not at all susceptible on such points, and know perfectly well how to take them. I had displeased Usteantseff, as my tea had also displeased him. What irritated him was that, in spite of all, I was a gentleman, even with my chains; that I could not do without a servant, though I neither asked for nor desired one. In reality I tried to do everything for myself, in order not to appear a white-handed, effeminate person, and not to play the part which excited so much envy. I even felt a little pride on this point; but, in spite of every thing--I do not know why--I was always surrounded by officious, complaisant people, who attached themselves to me of their own free will, and who ended by governing me. It was I rather who was their servant; so that, whether I liked it or not, I was made to appear to every one a noble, who could not do without the services of others, and who gave himself airs. This exasperated me. Usteantseff was consumptive, and, therefore, irascible. The other patients only showed me indifference, tinged with a shade of contempt. They were occupied with a circumstance which now presents itself to my memory. I learned, as I listened to their conversation, that there was to be brought into the hospital that evening a convict who, at that moment, was receiving the rods. The prisoners were looking forward to this new arrival with some curiosity. They said, however, that his punishment was but slight--only five hundred strokes. I looked round. The greater number of genuine patients were, as far as I could observe, affected by scurvy and diseases of the eyes--both peculiar to this country. The others suffered from fever, lung disease, and other illnesses. The different illnesses were not separated; all the patients were together in the same room. I have spoken of genuine patients, for certain convicts had come in merely to get a little rest. The doctors admitted them from pure compassion, above all, if there were any vacant beds. Life in the guard-house and in the prison was so hard compared with that of the hospital, that many persons preferred to remain lying down in spite of the stifling atmosphere and the rules against leaving the room. There were even men who took pleasure in this kind of life. They belonged nearly all to the Disciplinary Company. I examined my new companions with curiosity. One of them puzzled me very much. He was consumptive, and was dying. His bed was a little further on than that of Usteantseff, and was nearly beside mine. He was named Mikhailoff. I had seen him in the Convict Prison two weeks before, when he was already seriously ill. He ought to have been under treatment long before, but he bore up against his malady with surprising courage. He did not go to the hospital until about the Christmas holidays, to die three weeks afterwards of galloping consumption. He seemed to have burned out like a candle. What astonished me most was the terrible change in his countenance. I had noticed him the very first day of my imprisonment. By his side was lying a soldier of the Disciplinary Company--an old man with a bad expression on his face, whose general appearance was disgusting. But I am not going to enumerate all the patients. I just remember this old man simply because he made an impression on me, and initiated me at once into certain peculiarities of the ward. He had a severe cold in the head, which made him sneeze at every moment, even during his sleep, as if firing salutes, five or six times running, while each time he called out, "My God, what torture!" Seated on his bed he stuffed his nose eagerly with snuff, which he took from a paper bag, in order to sneeze more strongly, and with greater regularity. He sneezed into a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief which belonged to him, and which had lost its colour through perpetual washing. His little nose then became wrinkled in a most peculiar manner with a multitude of wrinkles, and his open mouth exhibited broken teeth, decayed and black, and red gums moist with saliva. When he sneezed into his handkerchief he unfolded it and wiped it on the lining of his dressing-gown. His proceedings disgusted me so much that involuntarily I examined the dressing-gown I had just put on myself. It exhaled a most offensive odour, which contact with my body helped to bring out. It smelt of plasters and medicaments of all kinds. It seemed as though it had been worn by patients from time immemorial. The lining had, perhaps, been washed once, but I would not swear to it. Certainly, at the time I put it on, it was saturated with lotions, and stained by contact with poultices and plasters of all imaginable kinds. The men condemned to the rods, having undergone their punishment, were brought straight to the hospital, their backs still bleeding. As compresses and as poultices were placed on their wounds, the dressing-gown they wore over their wet shirt received and retained the droppings. During all the time of my hard labour I had to go to the hospital, which often happened, I always put on, with mistrust and abhorrence, the dressing-gown that was delivered to me. As soon as Tchekounoff had given me my tea (I will say, in parenthesis, that the water brought in in the morning, and not renewed throughout the day, was soon corrupted, soon poisoned by the fetid air), the door opened, and the soldier, who had just received the rods, was brought in under a double escort. I saw, for the first time, a man who had just been whipped. Later on many were brought in, and whenever this happened it caused great distress to the patients. These unfortunate men were received with grave composure, but the nature of the reception depended nearly always on the enormity of the crime committed, and, consequently, the number of strokes administered. The criminals most cruelly whipped, and who were celebrated as brigands of the first order, enjoyed more respect and attention than a simple deserter, a recruit, like the one who had just been brought in. But in neither case was any particular sympathy manifested, nor were any annoying remarks made. The unhappy man was attended to in silence, above all if he was incapable of attending to himself. The assistant-surgeons knew that they were entrusting their patients to skilful and experienced hands. The usual treatment consisted in applying very often to the back of the man who had been whipped a shirt or a piece of linen steeped in cold water. It was also necessary to withdraw skilfully from the wounds the twigs left by the rods which had been broken on the criminal's back. This last operation was particularly painful to the patients. The extraordinary stoicism with which they supported their sufferings astonished me greatly. I have seen many convicts who had been whipped, and cruelly, I can tell you. Well, I do not remember one of them uttering a groan. Only after such an experience, the countenance becomes pale, decomposed, the eyes glitter, the look wanders, and the lips tremble so that the patient sometimes bites them till they bleed. The soldier who had just come in was twenty-three years of age; he had a good muscular development, and was rather a fine man, tall, well-made, with a bronzed skin. His back, uncovered down to the waist, had been seriously beaten, and his body now trembled with fever beneath the damp sheet with which his back was covered. For about an hour and a half he did nothing but walk backwards and forwards in the room. I looked at his face: he seemed to be thinking of nothing; his eyes had a strange expression, at once wild and timid; they seemed to fix themselves with difficulty on the various objects. I fancied I saw him looking attentively at my hot tea; the steam was rising from the full cup, and the poor devil was shivering and clattering his teeth. I invited him to have some; he turned towards me without saying a word, and taking up the cup, swallowed the tea at one gulp, without putting sugar in it. He tried not to look at me, and when he had finished he put the cup back in silence without making a sign, and then began to walk up and down as before. He was in too much pain to think of speaking to me or thanking me. As for the other prisoners, they abstained from questioning him; when once they had applied compresses they paid no more attention to him, thinking probably it would be better to leave him alone, and not to worry him by their questions and compassion. The soldier seemed quite satisfied with this view. Meanwhile, night came on and the lamp was lighted; some of the patients possessed candlesticks of their own, but these were not numerous. In the evening the doctor came round, after which a non-commissioned officer on guard counted the patients and closed the room. The prisoners could not speak in too high terms of their doctors. They looked upon them truly as fathers and respected them. These doctors had always something pleasant to say, a kind word even for reprobates, who appreciated it all the more because they knew it was said in all sincerity. Yes, these kind words were really sincere, for no one would have thought of blaming the doctors had they shown themselves cross and inhuman; they were kind purely from humanity. They understood perfectly that a convict who is sick has as much right to breathe pure air as any other person, even though the latter might be a great personage. The convalescents there had a right to walk freely through the corridors to take exercise, and to breathe air less pestilential than that of our infirmary, which was close and saturated with deleterious emanations. In our ward, when once the doors had been closed in the evening, they had to remain closed throughout the night, and under no pretext was one of the inmates allowed to go out. For many years an inexplicable fact troubled me like an insoluble problem. I must speak of it before going on with my description. I am thinking of the chains which every convict is obliged to wear, however ill he may be; even consumptives have died beneath my eyes with their legs loaded with irons. Everybody was accustomed to it, and regarded it as an inevitable fact. I do not think any one, even the doctors, would have thought of demanding the removal of the irons from convicts who were seriously ill, not even from the consumptive ones. The chains, it is true, were not exceedingly heavy; they did not in general weigh more than eight or ten pounds, which is a supportable burden for a man in good health. I have been told, however, that after some years the legs of the convicts dry up and waste away. I do not know whether it is true. I am inclined to think it is; the weight, however light it may be (say not more than ten pounds), if it is fixed to the leg for ever, increases the general weight in an abnormal manner, and at the end of a certain time must have a disastrous effect on its development. For a convict in good health this is nothing, but the same cannot be said of one who is sick. For the convicts who were seriously ill, for the consumptive ones whose arms and legs dry up of themselves, this last straw is insupportable. Even if the medical authorities claimed alleviation for the consumptive patients alone, it would be an immense benefit, I assure you. I shall be told convicts are malefactors, unworthy of compassion; but ought increased severity to be shown towards him on whom the finger of God already weighs? No one will believe that the object of this aggravation is to reform the criminal. The consumptive prisoners are exempted from corporal punishment by the tribunal. There must be some mysterious, important reason for all this, but what it is, it is impossible to understand. No one believes--it is impossible to believe--that a consumptive man will run away. Who can think of such a thing, especially if the illness has reached a certain degree of intensity? It is impossible to deceive the doctors and make them mistake a convict in good health for one who is in a consumption, for this malady is one that can be recognised at the first glance. Moreover, can the irons prevent the convict not in good health from escaping? Not in the least. The irons are a degradation and shame, a physical and moral burden; but they would not hinder any one attempting to escape. The most awkward and least intelligent convict can saw through them, or break the rivets by hammering at them with a stone. Chains, then, are a useless precaution; and if the convicts wear them as a punishment, should not this punishment be spared to dying men? As I write these lines, a face stands out from my memory: that of a dying man, a man who died in consumption, this same Mikhailoff, whose bed was nearly opposite me, and who expired, I think, four days after my arrival at the hospital. When I spoke above of the consumptive patients, I was only reproducing involuntarily the sensations and ideas which occurred to me on the occasion of this death. I knew Mikhailoff very little; he was a young man of twenty-five at most, not very tall, thin, and with a fine face; he belonged to the "special section," and was remarkable for his strange, but soft and sad taciturnity; he seemed to have "dried up" in the convict prison, to use an expression employed by the convicts who had a good recollection of him. I remember he had very fine eyes. I really cannot tell why I think of that. He died at three o'clock in the afternoon on a clear, dry day. The sun was darting its brilliant rays obliquely through the greenish, frozen panes of our room. A torrent of light inundated the unhappy patient, who had lost all consciousness, and was several hours dying. From the early morning his sight became confused; he was unable to recognise those who approached him. The convicts would gladly have done anything to relieve him, for they saw he was in great suffering. His respiration was painful, deep, and irregular; his breast rose and fell violently, as though he were in want of air; he cast his blanket and his clothes far from him. Then he began to tear up his shirt, which seemed to him a terrible burden. It was taken off. Then it was frightful to see this immensely long body, with fleshless arms and legs, with beating breast, and ribs which were as clearly marked as those of a skeleton. There was nothing now on this skeleton but a cross and the irons, from which his dried-up legs might easily have freed themselves. A quarter of an hour before his death everything was silent in our ward, and the inmates spoke only in whispers. The convicts walked on the tips of their toes. From time to time they exchanged remarks on other subjects, and cast a furtive glance at the dying man. The rattling in his throat grew more and more painful. At last, with a trembling hand, he felt the cross on his breast and endeavoured to tear it off; it was also weighing upon him, suffocating him. It was taken off. Ten minutes afterwards, he died. Some one then knocked at the door in order to give notice to the sentinel; the warder entered, looked at the dead man with a vacant air, and went away to get the assistant-surgeon. The assistant-surgeon was a good fellow enough, but a little too much occupied with his personal appearance, otherwise very agreeable; he soon arrived, went up to the corpse with long strides which made a noise in the silent ward, and felt the dead man's pulse with an unconcerned air which seemed to have been put on for the occasion. He then made a vague gesture with his hand and went out. Information was given at the guard-house; for the criminal was an important one (he belonged to the special section), and in order to register his death it was necessary to go through some formalities. While we were waiting for the hospital guard to come, one of the prisoners said in a whisper, "The eyes of the defunct might as well be closed." Another one profited by this remark, and approaching Mikhailoff in silence, closed his eyes; then perceiving on the pillow the cross which had been taken from his neck, he took it and looked at it, put it down, and crossed himself. The face of the dead man was becoming ossified; a ray of white light was playing on the surface and illuminated two rows of white, good teeth which sparkled between his thin lips, glued to the gums by the mouth. The non-commissioned officer on guard arrived at last, musket on shoulder, helmet on head, accompanied by two soldiers; he approached the corpse, slackening his pace with an air of uncertainty. Then he examined with a side glance the silent prisoners, who looked at him with a sombre expression. At one step from the dead man he stopped short, as if suddenly nailed to the spot; the naked, dried-up body, loaded with irons, had impressed him; he undid his chin-strap, removed his helmet (which was not at all necessary for him to do), and made the sign of the cross; he had a gray head, the head of a soldier who had seen much service. I remember that by his side stood Tchekounoff, an old man who was also gray. He looked all the time at the non-commissioned officer, and followed all his movements with strange attention. They glanced across, and I saw that Tchekounoff also trembled. He bit and closed his teeth, and said to the non-commissioned officer, as if involuntarily, at the same time nodding his head in the direction of the dead man, "He had a mother, too!" These words went to my heart. Why had he said them? and how did this idea occur to him? The corpse was raised with the mattress; the straw creaked, the chains dragged along the ground with a sharp ring; they were taken up and the body was carried out. Suddenly all spoke once more in a loud voice. The non-commissioned officer in the corridor could well be heard crying out to some one to go for the blacksmith. It was necessary to take the dead man's irons off. But I have digressed from my subject. CHAPTER II. THE HOSPITAL (_continued_). The doctors used to visit the wards in the morning, towards eleven o'clock; they appeared all together, forming a procession, which was headed by the chief physician. An hour and a half before, the ordinary physician had made his round. He was a quiet young man, always affable and kind, much liked by the prisoners, and thoroughly versed in his art; they only found one fault with him, that he was "too soft." He was, in fact, by no means communicative, he seemed confused in our presence, blushed sometimes, and changed the quantity of food at the first representation of the patient. I think he would have consented to give them any medicine they desired: in other respects an excellent young man. A doctor in Russia often enjoys the affection and respect of the people, and with reason, as far as I have been able to see. I know that my words would seem a paradox, above all when the mistrust of this same people for foreign drugs and foreign doctors is taken into account; in fact, they prefer, even when suffering from a serious illness, to address themselves year after year to a witch, or employ old women's remedies (which, however, ought not to be despised), rather than consult a doctor, or go into the hospital. In truth, these prejudices may be above all attributed to causes which have nothing to do with medicine, namely, the mistrust of the people for anything which bears an official and administrative character; nor must it be forgotten that the common people are frightened and prejudiced in regard to the hospitals, by the stories, often absurd, of fantastic horrors said to take place within them. Perhaps, however, these stories have a basis of truth. But what repels them above all, is the Germanism of the hospitals, the idea that during their illness they will be attended to by foreigners, the severity of the diet, the heartlessness of the surgeons and doctors, the dissection and autopsy of the bodies, etc. The common people reflect, moreover, that they will be attended by nobles--for in their view the doctors belong to the nobility. Once they have made acquaintance with them (there are exceptions, no doubt, but they are rare), their fears vanish. This success must be attributed to our doctors, especially the young ones, who, for the most part, know how to gain the respect and affection of the people. I speak now of what I myself have seen and experienced in many cases and in different parts, and I think matters are the same everywhere. In some distant localities the doctors receive presents, make profit out of their hospitals, and neglect the patients; sometimes they forget even their art. This happens, no doubt; but I am speaking of the majority, inspired as it is by that spirit, that generous tendency which is regenerating the medical art. As for the apostates, the wolves in the sheep-fold, they may excuse themselves, and cast the blame on the circumstances amid which they live; but they are absurd, inexcusable, especially if they are no longer humane; it is precisely the humanity, affability, and brotherly compassion of the doctor which prove most efficacious remedies for the patients. It is time to stop these apathetic lamentations on the circumstances surrounding us. There may be truth in the lament, but a cunning rogue who knows how to take care of himself never fails to blame the circumstances around him when he wishes his faults to be forgiven--above all, if he writes or speaks with eloquence. I have again departed from my subject; I wish only to say that the common people mistrust and dislike officialism and the Government doctors, rather than the doctors themselves; but on personal acquaintance many prejudices disappear. Our doctor generally stopped before the bed of each patient, questioned him seriously and attentively, then prescribed the remedies, potions, etc. He sometimes noticed that the pretended invalid was not ill at all; he had come to take rest after his hard work, and to sleep on a mattress in a warm room, far preferable to the naked planks in a damp guard-house among a mass of pale, broken-down men, waiting for their trial. In Russia the prisoners in the House of Detention are almost always broken down, which shows that their moral and material condition is worse even than those of the convicts. In cases of feigned sickness our doctor would describe the patient as suffering from _febris catharalis_, and sometimes allowed him to remain a week in the hospital. Every one laughed at this _febris catharalis_, for it was known to be a formula agreed upon between the doctor and the patient to indicate no malady at all. Often the robust invalid who abused the doctor's compassion remained in the hospital until he was turned out by force. Our doctor was worth seeing then. Confused by the prisoner's obstinacy, he did not like to tell him plainly that he was cured and offer him his leaving ticket, although he had the right to send him away without the least explanation on writing the words, _sanat. est_. First he would hint to him that it was time to go, and then would beg him to leave. "You must go, you know you are cured now, and we have no place for you, we are very much cramped here, etc." At last, ashamed to remain any longer, the patient would consent to go. The physician-in-chief, although compassionate and just (the patients were much attached to him), was incomparably more severe and more decided than our ordinary physician. In certain cases he showed merciless severity which only gained for him the respect of the convicts. He always came into the room accompanied by all the doctors of the hospital, when his assistants visited all the beds and diagnosed on each particular case; he stopped longest at the beds of those who were seriously ill, and had an encouraging word for them. He never sent back the convicts who arrived with _febris catharalis_; but if one of them was determined to remain in the hospital, he certified that the man was cured. "Come," he would say, "you have had your rest; now go, you must not take liberties." Those who insisted upon remaining, were, above all, the convicts who were worn out by field labour, performed during the great summer heat, or prisoners who had been sentenced to be whipped. I remember that they were obliged to be particularly severe, merely in order to get rid of one of them. He had come to be cured of some disease of the eyes, which were red all over; he complained of suffering a sharp pain in the eyelids. He was incurable; plasters, blisters, leeches, nothing did him any good; and the diseased organ remained in the same condition. Then it occurred to the doctors that the illness was feigned, for the inflammation neither became worse nor better; and they soon understood that a comedy was being played, although the patient would not admit it. He was a fine young fellow, not ill-looking, though he produced a disagreeable impression upon all his companions; he was suspicious, sombre, full of dissimulation, and never looked any one straight in the face; he also kept himself apart as if he mistrusted us all. I remember that many persons were afraid that he would do some one harm. When he was a soldier he had committed some small theft, he had been arrested and condemned to receive a thousand strokes, and afterwards to pass into a disciplinary company. To put off the moment of punishment, the prisoners, as I have already said, will do incredible things. On the eve of the fatal day, they will stick a knife into one of their chiefs, or into a comrade, in order that they may be tried again for this new offence, which will delay their punishment for a month or two. It matters little to them that their punishment be doubled or tripled, if they can escape this time. What they desire is to put off temporarily the terrible minute at whatever cost, so utterly does their heart fail them. Many of the patients thought the man with the sore eyes ought to be watched, lest in his despair he should assassinate some one during the night; but no precaution was taken, not even by those who slept next to him. It was remarked, however, that he rubbed his eyes with plaster from the wall, and with something else besides, in order that they might appear red when the doctor came round; at last the doctor-in-chief threatened to cure him by-means of a seton. When the malady resists all ordinary treatment, the doctors determine to try some heroic, however painful, remedy. But the poor devil did not wish to get well, he was either too obstinate or too cowardly; for, however painful the proposed operation may be, it cannot be compared to the punishment of the rods. The operation consists in seizing the patient by the nape of the neck, taking up the skin, drawing it back as much as possible, and making in it a double incision, through which is passed a skein of cotton about as thick as the finger. Every day at a fixed hour this skein is pulled backwards and forwards in order that the wound may continually suppurate and may not heal; the poor devil endured this torture which caused him horrible suffering, for several days. At last he consented to quit the hospital. In less than a day his eyes became quite well; and, as soon as his neck was healed, he was sent to the guard-house which he left next day to receive the first thousand strokes. Painful is the minute which precedes such a punishment; so painful, that perhaps I am wrong in taxing with cowardice those convicts who fear it. It must be terrible; for the convicts to risk a double or triple punishment, merely to postpone it. I have spoken, however, of convicts who have thus wished to quit the hospital before the wounds caused by the first part of the flogging were healed, in order to receive the last part and make an end of it. For life in a guard-room is certainly worse than in a convict prison. The habit of receiving floggings helps in some cases to give intrepidity and decision to convicts. Those who have been often flogged, are hardened both in body and mind, and have at last looked upon such a punishment as merely a disagreeable incident no longer to be feared. One of our convicts of the special section was a converted Tartar, who was named Alexander, or Alexandrina, as they called him in fun at the convict prison; who told me how he had received 4,000 strokes. He never spoke of this punishment except with amusement and laughter; but he swore very seriously that if he had not been brought up in his horde, from his most tender infancy, on whipping and flogging--and as the scars which covered his back, and which refused to disappear, were there to testify--he would never have been able to support those 4,000 strokes. He blessed the education of sticks that he had received. "I was beaten for the least thing, Alexander Petrovitch," he said one evening, when we were sitting down before the fire. "I was beaten without reason for fifteen years, as long as I can ever remember, and several times a day. Any one who liked beat me; so that, at last, it made no impression upon me." I do not know how it was he became a soldier, for perhaps he lied, and had always been a deserter and vagabond. But I remember his telling me one day of the fright he was seized with when he was condemned to receive 4,000 strokes for having killed one of his officers. "I know that they will punish me severely," he said to himself, "that, accustomed as I am to be whipped, I shall perhaps die on the spot. The devil! 4,000 strokes is not a trifle; and then all my officers were in a fearful temper with me on account of this affair. I knew well that it would not be 'rose-water.' I even believed that I should die under the rods. I determined to get baptized. I said to myself, that perhaps they would not then flog me, at any rate it was worth trying, my comrades had told me that it would be of no good. But,' I said to myself, 'who knows? perhaps they will pardon me, they will have more compassion on a Christian than on a Mohammedan. They baptized me, and give me the name of Alexander; but, in spite of that, I had to take my flogging; they did not let me off a single stroke; I was, however, very savage. 'Wait a bit,' I said to myself, 'and I will take you all in'; and, would you believe it, Alexander? I did take them all in. I knew how to look like a dead man; not that I appeared altogether without life, but I looked as if I were on the point of breathing my last. They led me in front of the battalion to receive my first thousand; my skin was burning, I began to howl. They gave me my second thousand, and I said to myself, 'It's all over now.' I had lost my head, my legs seemed broken, so I fell to the ground, with the eyes of a dead man. My face blue, my mouth full of froth, I no longer breathed. When the doctor came he said I was on the point of death. I was carried to the hospital, and at once returned to life. Twice again they flogged me. What a rage they were in! I took them all in on each occasion. I received my third thousand, and died again. On my word, when they gave me the last thousand each stroke ought to have counted for three, it was like a knife in my heart. Oh, how they did beat me! They were so severe with me. Oh, that cursed fourth thousand! it was well worth three firsts put together. If I had pretended to be dead when I had still 200 to receive, I think they would have finished me; but they did not get the better of me. I had them again and again, for they always thought it was all over with me, and how could they have thought otherwise? The doctor was sure of it. But as for the 200 which I had still to receive, they might have struck as hard as they liked--they were worth 2,000; I only laughed at them. Why? Because, when I was a youngster, I had grown up under the whip. Well, I am well, and alive now; but I have been beaten in the course of my life," he repeated, with a passive air, as he brought his story to an end. As he did so, he seemed to recollect and count anew the blows he had received. After a brief silence, he said: "I cannot count them, nor can any one else; there are not figures enough." He looked at me, and burst into a laugh, so simple and natural, that I could not help smiling in return. "Do you know, Alexander Petrovitch, when I dream at night, I always dream that I am being flogged. I dream of nothing else." He, in fact, talked in his sleep, and woke up the other prisoners. "What are you yelling about, you demon?" they would say to him. This strong, robust fellow, short in stature, about forty-four years of age, active, good-looking, lived on good terms with every one, though he was very fond of taking what did not belong to him, and afterwards got beaten for it. But each of our convicts who stole got beaten for their thefts. I will add to these remarks that I was always surprised at the extraordinary good-nature, the absence of rancour with which these unhappy men spoke of their punishment, and of the chiefs superintending it. In these stories, which often gave me palpitation of the heart, not a shadow of hatred or rancour could be detected; they laughed at what they had suffered like children. It was not the same, however, with M--tçki, when he told me of his punishment. As he was not a noble, he had been sentenced to be flogged. He had never spoken to me of it, and when I asked him if it were true, he replied affirmatively in two brief words, but with evident suffering, and without looking at me. He at the same time turned red, and when he raised his eyes, I saw flames burning in them, while his lips trembled with indignation. I felt that he would not forget, that he could never forget this page of his history. Our companions generally on the other hand (though theirs might have been exceptions), looked upon their adventures with quite another eye. It is impossible, I sometimes thought, that they can be conscious of their guilt, and not acknowledge the justice of their punishment; above all, when their offences were against their companions and not against some chief. The greater part of them did not acknowledge their guilt. I have already said that I never observed in them the least remorse, even when the crime had been committed against people of their own station. As for the crimes committed against a chief, they did not even speak of them. It seems to me that for those cases, they had special views of their own. They looked upon them as accidents caused by destiny, by fatality, into which they had fallen unconsciously as the result of some extraordinary impulse. The convict always justifies the crimes he has committed against his chief; he does not trouble himself about the matter. But he admits that the chief cannot share his view, and consequently, that he must naturally be punished, and then he will be quits with him. The struggle between the administration and the prisoner is of the severest character on both sides. What in a great measure justifies the criminal in his own eyes, is his conviction that the people among whom he has been born and has lived will acquit him. He is certain that the common people will not look upon him as a lost man, unless, indeed, his crime has bean committed against persons of his own class, against his brethren. He is quite calm about that; supported by his conscience, he will not lose his moral tranquillity, and that is the principal thing. He feels himself on firm ground, and has no particular hatred for the knout, when once it has been administered to him. He knows that it was inevitable, and consoles himself by thinking that he was neither the first nor the last to receive it. Does the soldier detest the Turk whom he fights? Not in the least! yet he sabres him, hacks him to pieces, kills him. It must not be thought, moreover, that all of these stories were told with indifference and in cold blood. When the name of Jerebiatnikof was mentioned, it was always with indignation. I made the acquaintance of this officer during my first stay in the hospital--only by the convicts' stories, it must be understood. I afterwards saw him one day when he was commanding the guard at the convict prison; he was about thirty years old, very stout and very strong, with red cheeks hanging down on each side, white teeth, and a formidable laugh. One could see in a moment that he was in no way given to reflection. He took the greatest pleasure in whipping and flogging, when he had to superintend the punishment. I must hasten to say that the other officers looked upon Jerebiatnikof as a monster, and the convicts did the same. This was in the good old time, which is not very very far off, but in which it is already difficult to believe executioners delighted in their office. But, generally speaking, the strokes were administered without enthusiasm. This lieutenant was an exception, and he took a real pleasure and delight in punishment. He had a passion for it, and liked it for its own sake; he looked to this art for unnatural delights in order to tickle and excite his base soul. A prisoner is conducted to the place of punishment. Jerebiatnikof is the officer superintending the execution. Arranging a long line of soldiers, armed with heavy rods, he walks along the front with a satisfied air, and encourages each one to do his duty, conscientiously or otherwise--the soldiers know before what "otherwise" means. The criminal is brought out. If he does not yet know Jerebiatnikof, if he is not in the secret of the mystery, the Lieutenant plays him the following trick--one of the inventions of Jerebiatnikof, very ingenious in this style of thing. The prisoner, whose back has been bared, and whom the non-commissioned officers have fastened to the butt end of a musket in order to drag him afterwards through the whole length of the "Green Street." He begs the officer in charge, with a plaintive and tearful voice, not to have him struck too hard, not to double the punishment by any undue severity. "Your nobility!" cries the unhappy wretch, "have pity on me, treat me fraternally, so that I may pray God throughout my life for you. Do not destroy me, show mercy!" Jerebiatnikof had waited for this. He now suspended the execution, and engaged the prisoner in conversation, speaking to him in a sentimental, compassionate tone. "But, my good fellow," he would say, "what am I to do? It is the law that punishes you--it is the law." "Your nobility! You can make it everything; have pity upon me." "Do you really think that I have no pity on you? Do you think it is any pleasure to me to see you whipped? I am a man, am I not? Answer me, am I not a man?" "Certainly, your nobility. We know that the officers are our fathers and we their children. Be to me a venerable father," the prisoner would cry, seeing some possibility of escaping punishment. "Then, my friend, judge for yourself. You have a brain to think with, you know I am human, I ought to take compassion on you, sinner though you be." "Your nobility says the absolute truth." "Yes, I ought to be merciful to you however guilty you may be. But it is not I who punish you, it is the law. I serve God and my country, and consequently I commit a grave sin if I mitigate the punishment fixed by the law. Only think of that!" "Your nobility!" "Well, what am I to do? Only think, I know that I am doing wrong, but it shall be as you wish; I will have mercy upon you, you shall be punished lightly. But if I really do this on one occasion, if I show mercy, if I punish you lightly, you will think that at another time I shall be merciful, and you will recommence your follies. What do you say to that?" "Your nobility, preserve me! Before the throne of the heavenly Creator, I----" "No, no; you swear that you will behave yourself." "May the Lord cause me to die this moment and in the next world." "Do not swear in that way, it is a sin; I shall believe you if you will give me your word." "Your nobility." "Well, listen, I will have mercy on you on account of your tears, your orphan's tears, for you are an orphan, are you not?" "Orphan on both sides, your nobility, I am alone in the world." "Well, on account of your orphan's tears I have pity on you," he added, in a voice so full of emotion, that the prisoner could not sufficiently thank God for having sent him so good an officer. The procession went out, the drum rolled, the soldiers brandished their arms. "Flog him," Jerebiatnikof would roar from the bottom of his lungs, "flog him! burn him! skin him alive! Harder! harder! Give it harder to this orphan! Give it him, the rogue." The soldiers lay on the strokes with all their might on the back of the unhappy wretch, whose eyes dart fire, and who howls while Jerebiatnikof runs after him in front of the line, holding his sides with laughter--he puffs and blows so that he can scarcely hold himself upright. He is happy. He thinks it droll. From time to time his formidable resonant laugh is heard, as he keeps on repeating, "Flog him! thrash him! this brigand! this orphan!" He had composed variation on this motive. The prisoner has been brought to undergo his punishment. He begs the lieutenant to have pity on him. This time Jerebiatnikof does not play the hypocrite; he is frank with the prisoner. "Look, my dear fellow, I will punish you as you deserve, but I can show you one act of mercy. I will not attach you to the butt end of the musket, you shall go along in a new style, you have only to run as hard as you can along the front, each rod will strike you as a matter of course, but it will be over sooner. What do you say to that, will you try?" The prisoner, who has listened, full of mistrust and doubt, says to himself: Perhaps this way will not be so bad as the other. If I run with all my might, it will not last quite so long, and perhaps all the rods will not touch me. "Well, your nobility, I consent." "I also consent. Come, mind your business," cries the lieutenant to the soldiers. He knew beforehand that not one rod would spare the back of the unfortunate wretch; the soldier who failed to hit him would know what to expect. The convict tries to run along the "Green Street," but he does not go beyond fifteen men before the rods rain upon his poor spine like hail; so that the unfortunate man shrieks out, and falls as if he had been struck by a bullet. "No, your nobility, I prefer to be flogged in the ordinary way," he says, managing to get up, pale and frightened. While Jerebiatnikof, who knew beforehand how this affair would end, held his sides and burst into a laugh. But I cannot relate all the diversions invented by him, and all that was told about him. My companions also spoke of a Lieutenant Smekaloff, who fulfilled the functions of Commandant before the arrival of our present Major. They spoke of Jerebiatnikof with indifference, without hatred, but also without exalting his high achievements. They did not praise him, they simply despised him, whilst at the name of Smekaloff the whole prison burst into a chorus of laudation. The Lieutenant was by no means fond of administering the rods; there was nothing in him of Jerebiatnikof's disposition. How did it happen that the convicts remembered his punishments, severe as they were, with sweet satisfaction. How did he manage to please them. How did he gain the popularity he certainly enjoyed? Our companions, like Russian people in general, were ready to forget their tortures if a kind word was said to them; I speak of the effect itself without analysing or examining it. It is not difficult, then, to gain the affections of such a people and become popular. Lieutenant Smekaloff had gained such popularity, and when the punishments he had directed were spoken of, they were always mentioned with a certain sympathy. "He was as kind as a father," the convicts would sometimes say, as, with a sigh, they compared him with their present chief, the Major who had replaced him. He was a simple-minded man, and kind in a manner. There are chiefs who are naturally kind and merciful, but who are not at all liked and are laughed at; whereas, Smekaloff had so managed that all the prisoners had a special regard for him; this was due to innate qualities, which those who possess them do not understand. Strange thing! There are men who are far from being kind, and who have yet the talent of making themselves popular; they do not despise the people who are beneath their rule. That, I think, is the cause of this popularity. They do not give themselves lordly airs; they have no feeling of "caste;" they have a certain odour of the people; they are men of birth, and the people at once sniff it. They will do anything for such men; they will gladly change the mildest and most humane man for a very severe chief, if the latter possesses this sort of odour, and especially if the man is also genial in his way. Oh! then he is beyond price. Lieutenant Smekaloff, as I have said, ordered sometimes very severe punishments. But he seemed to inflict them in such a way, that the prisoners felt no rancour against him. On the contrary, they recalled his whipping affairs with laughter; he did not punish frequently, for he had no artistic imagination. He had invented only one practical joke, a single one which amused him for nearly a year in our convict prison. This joke was dear to him, probably, because it was his only one, and it was not without humour. Smekaloff assisted himself at the executions, joking all the time, and laughing at the prisoner as he questioned him about the most out-of-the-way things, such, for instance, as his private affairs. He did this without any bad motive, and simply because he really wished to know something about the man's affairs. A chair was brought to him, together with the rods which were to be used for chastising the prisoner. The Lieutenant sat down and lighted his long pipe; the prisoner implored him. "No, comrade, lie down. What is the matter with you?" The convict stretched himself on the ground with a sigh. "Can you read fluently?" "Of course, your nobility; I am baptized, and I was taught to read when I was a child." "Then read this." The convict knows beforehand what he is to read, and knows how the reading will end, because this joke has been repeated more than thirty times; but Smekaloff knows also that the convict is not his dupe any more than the soldier who now holds the rods suspended over the back of the unhappy victim. The convict begins to read; the soldiers armed with the rods await motionless. Smekaloff ceases even to smoke, raises his hand, and waits for a word fixed upon beforehand. At the word, which from some double meaning might be interpreted as the order to start, the Lieutenant raises his hand, and the flogging begins. The officer bursts into a laugh, and the soldiers around him also laugh; the man who is whipping laughs, and the man who is being whipped also. CHAPTER III. THE HOSPITAL[4] (_continued_). I have spoken here of punishments and of those who have administered them, because I got a very clear idea on the subject during my stay in the hospital. Until then I knew of them only by general report. In our room were confined all the prisoners from the battalion who were to receive the spitzruten [rods], as well as those from the military establishment in our town and in the district surrounding it. During my first few days I looked at all that surrounded me with such greedy eyes that these strange manners, these men who had just been flogged or were about to be flogged, left upon me a terrible impression. I was agitated, frightened. As I listened to the conversation or narratives of the other prisoners on this subject, I put to myself questions which I endeavoured in vain to solve. I wished to know all the degrees of the sentences; the punishments, and their shades; and to learn the opinion of the convicts themselves. I tried to represent to myself the psychological condition of the men flogged. It rarely happened, as I have already said, that the prisoner approached the fatal moment in cold blood, even if he had been beaten several times before. The condemned man experiences a fear which is very terrible, but purely physical--an unconscious fear which upsets his moral nature. During my several years' stay in the convict prison I was able to study at leisure the prisoners who wished to leave the hospital, where they had remained some time to have their damaged backs cured before receiving the second half of their punishment. This interruption in the punishment is always called for by the doctor who assists at the execution. If the number of strokes to be received is too great for them to be administered all at once, it is divided according to advice given by the doctor on the spot. It is for him to see if the prisoner is in a condition to undergo the whole of his punishment, or if his life is in danger. Five hundred, one thousand, and even one thousand five hundred strokes with the stick are administered at once. But if it is two or three thousand the punishment is divided into two or three doses. Those whose back had been cured after the first administration, and who are to undergo a second, were sad, sombre and silent the day they went out, and the evening before. They were almost in a state of torpor. They engaged in no conversation, and remained perfectly silent. It is worthy of remark that the prisoners avoid addressing those who are about to be punished, and, above all, never make any allusion to the subject, neither in consolation nor in superfluous words. No attention whatever is paid to them, which is certainly the best thing for the prisoner. There are exceptions, however. The convict Orloff, of whom I have already spoken, was sorry that his back did not get more quickly cured, for he was anxious to get his leave-ticket in order that he might take the rest of his flogging, and then be assigned to a convoy of prisoners, when he meant to escape during the journey. He had a passionate, ardent nature, and with only that object in view. A cunning rascal, he seemed very pleased when he first came; but he was in a state of abnormal excitement, though he endeavoured to conceal it. He had been afraid of being left on the ground, and dying before half of his punishment had been undergone. He had heard steps taken in his case, by the authorities, when he was still being tried, and he thought he could not survive the punishment. But when he had received his first dose he recovered his courage. When he came to the hospital I had never seen such wounds as his; but he was in the best spirits. He now hoped to be able to live. The stories which had reached him were untrue, or the execution would not have been interrupted. He now began to think of a long Siberian journey, possibly of escaping to liberty, fields, and forests. Two days after he had left the hospital he came back to die--on the very couch which he had occupied during my stay there. He had been unable to support the second half of his punishment; but I have already spoken of this man. All the prisoners without exception, even the most pusillanimous, even those who were beforehand tormented night and day, supported it courageously when it came. I scarcely ever heard groans during the night following the execution; our people, as a rule, knew how to endure pain. I questioned my companion often in reference to this pain, that I might know to what kind of suffering it might be compared. It was no idle curiosity which urged me. I repeat that I was moved and frightened; but it was in vain, I could get no satisfactory reply. "It burns like fire!" was the general answer; they all said the same thing. First I tried to question M--tski. "It burns like fire! like hell! It seems as if one's back were in a furnace." I made one day a strange observation, which may or may not have been well founded, although the opinion of the convicts themselves confirms my views; namely, that the rods are the most terrible punishment in use among us. At first it seems absurd, impossible, yet five hundred strokes of the rods, four hundred even, are enough to kill a man. Beyond five hundred death is almost certain; the most robust man will be unable to support a thousand rods, whereas five hundred sticks are endured without much inconvenience, and without the least risk in the world of losing one's life. A man of ordinary build supports a thousand sticks without danger; even two thousand sticks will not kill a man of ordinary strength and constitution. All the convicts declared that rods were worse than sticks or ramrods. "Rods hurt more and torture more!" they said. They must torture more than sticks, that is certain, that is evident; for they irritate much more forcibly the nervous system, which they excite beyond measure. I do not know whether any person still exists, but such did a short time ago, to whom the whipping of a victim procured a delight which recalls the Marquis de Sade and the Marchioness Brinvilliers. I think this delight must consist in the sinking of the heart, and that these nobles must have experienced pain and delight at the same time. There are people who, like tigers, are greedy for blood. Those who have possessed unlimited power over the flesh, blood, and soul of their fellow-creatures, of their brethren according to the law of Christ, those who have possessed this power and who have been able to degrade with a supreme degradation, another being made in the image of God; these men are incapable of resisting their desires and their thirst for sensations. Tyranny is a habit capable of being developed, and at last becomes a disease. I declare that the best man in the world can become hardened and brutified to such a point, that nothing will distinguish him from a wild beast. Blood and power intoxicate; they aid the development of callousness and debauchery; the mind then becomes capable of the most abnormal cruelty in the form of pleasure; the man and the citizen disappear for ever in the tyrant; and then a return to human dignity, repentance, moral resurrection, becomes almost impossible. That the possibility of such license has a contagious effect on the whole of society there is no doubt. A society which looks upon such things with an indifferent eye, is already infected to the marrow. In a word, the right granted to a man to inflict corporal punishment on his fellow-men, is one of the plague-spots of our society. It is the means of annihilating all civic spirit. Such a right contains in germ the elements of inevitable, imminent decomposition. Society despises an executioner by trade, but not a lordly executioner. Every manufacturer, every master of works, must feel an irritating pleasure when he reflects that the workman he has beneath his orders is dependent upon him with the whole of his family. A generation does not, I am sure, extirpate so quickly what is hereditary in it. A man cannot renounce what is in his blood, what has been transmitted to him with his mother's milk; these revolutions are not accomplished so quickly. It is not enough to confess one's fault. That is very little! Very little indeed! It must be rooted out, and that is not done so quickly. I have spoken of the executioners. The instincts of an executioner are in germ in nearly every one of our contemporaries; but the animal instincts of the man have not developed themselves in a uniform manner. When they stifle all other faculties, the man becomes a hideous monster. There are two kinds of executioners, those who of their own will are executioners and those who are executioners by duty, by reason of office. He who, by his own will, is an executioner, is in all respects below the salaried executioner, whom, however, the people look upon with repugnance, and who inspires them with disgust, with instinctive mystical fear. Whence comes this almost superstitious horror for the latter, when one is only indifferent and indulgent to the former? I know strange examples of honourable men, kind, esteemed by all their friends, who found it necessary that a culprit should be whipped until he would implore and beg for mercy; it seemed to them a natural thing, a thing recognised as indispensable. If the victim did not choose to cry out, his executioner, whom in other respects I should consider a good man, looked upon it as a personal offence; he meant, in the first instance, to inflict only a light punishment, but directly he failed to hear the habitual supplications, "Your nobility!" "Have mercy!" "Be a father to me!" "Let me thank God all my life!" he became furious, and ordered that fifty more blows should be administered, hoping thus, at last, to obtain the necessary cries and supplications; and at last they came. "Impossible! he is too insolent," cried the man in question, very seriously. As for the executioner by office, he is a convict who has been chosen for this function. He passes an apprenticeship with an old hand, and as soon as he knows his trade remains in the convict prison, where he lives by himself. He has a room, which he shares with no one. Sometimes, indeed, he has a separate establishment, but he is always under guard. A man is not a machine. Although he whips by virtue of his office, he sometimes becomes furious, and beats with a certain pleasure. Notwithstanding he has no hatred for his victim, a desire to show his skill in the art of whipping may sharpen his vanity. He works as an artist; he knows well that he is a reprobate, and that he excites everywhere superstitious dread. It is impossible that this should exercise no influence upon him, and not irritate his brutal instincts. Even little children say that this man has neither father nor mother. Strange thing! All the executioners I have known were intelligent men, possessing a certain degree of conceit. This conceit became developed in them through the contempt which they everywhere met with, and was strengthened, perhaps, by the consciousness of the fear with which they inspired their victims, and of the power over unfortunate wretches. The theatrical paraphernalia surrounding them developed, perhaps, in them a certain arrogance. I had for some time an opportunity of meeting and observing at close quarters an ordinary executioner. He was a man about forty, muscular, dry, with an agreeable, intelligent face, surrounded by long curly hair. His manners were quiet and grave, his general demeanour becoming. He replied clearly and sensibly to all questions put to him, but with a sort of condescension as if he were in some way my superior. The officers of the guard spoke to him with a certain respect, which he fully appreciated, for which reason, in presence of his chiefs, he became polite, and more dignified than ever. He never departed from the most refined politeness. I am sure that, when I was speaking to him, he felt incomparably superior to the man who was addressing him. I could read that in his countenance. Sometimes he was sent under escort, in summer, when it was very hot, to kill the dogs of the town with a long, very thin spear. These wandering dogs increased in numbers with such prodigious rapidity, and became so dangerous during the dog days, that, by the decision of the authorities, the executioner was ordered to destroy them. This degrading duty did not in any way humiliate him. It should have been seen with what gravity he walked through the streets of the town, accompanied by a soldier escorting him; how, with a single glance, he frightened the women and children; and how, from the height of his grandeur, he looked down upon the passers-by generally. Executioners live at their ease. They have money to travel comfortably, and drink vodka. They derive most of their income from presents which the prisoners condemned to be flogged slip into their hands before the execution. When they have to do with convicts who are rich, they then fix a sum to be paid in proportion to the means of the victim. They will exact thirty roubles, sometimes more. The executioner has no right to spare his victim; and he does so at the risk of his own back. But for a suitable present he agrees not to strike too hard. People almost always give what he asks; should they in any case refuse, he would strike like a savage; and it is in his power to do so. He sometimes exacts a heavy sum from a man who is very poor. Then all the relations of the victim are put in movement. They bargain, try and beat him down, supplicate him; but it will not be well if they do not succeed in satisfying him. In such a case the superstitious fear inspired by the executioner stands them in good part. I had been told the most wonderful things--that at one blow the executioner can kill his man. "Is this your experience?" I asked. Perhaps so. Who knows? Their tone seemed to decide, if there could be any doubt about it. They also told me that he can strike a criminal in such a way that he will not feel the least pain, and without leaving a scar. Even when the executioner receives a present not to whip too severely, he gives the first blow with all his strength. It is the custom! Then he administers the other blows with less severity, above all if he has been well paid. I do not know why this is done. Is it to prepare the victim for the succeeding blows, which will appear less painful after the first cruel one; or do they want to frighten the criminal, so that he may know with whom he has to deal; or do they simply wish to display their vigour from vanity? In any case the executioner is slightly excited before the execution, and he is conscious of his strength and of his power. He is acting at the time; the public admires him, and is filled with terror. Accordingly, it is not without satisfaction that he cries out to his victim, "Look out! you are going to have it!"--customary and fatal words which precede the first blow. It is difficult to imagine a human being degraded to such a point. The first day of my stay at the hospital I listened attentively to the stories of the convicts, which broke the monotony of the long days. In the morning, the doctor's visit was the first diversion. Then came dinner, which it will be believed was the most important affair of our daily life. The portions were different according to the nature of the illness: some of the prisoners received nothing but broth with groats in it; others nothing but gruel; others a kind of semolina, which was much liked. The convicts ended by becoming effeminate and fastidious. The convalescents received a piece of boiled beef. The best food, which was reserved for the scorbutic patients, consisted of roast beef with onions, horseradish, and sometimes a small glass of spirits. The bread was, according to the illness, black or brown; the precision preserved in distributing the rations would make the patients laugh. There were some who took absolutely nothing; the portions were exchanged in such a way that the food intended for one patient was eaten by another: those who were being kept on low diet, who received only small rations, bought those of the scorbutic patients; others would give any price for meat. There were some who ate two entire portions; it cost them a good deal, for they were generally sold at five kopecks each. If one had no meat to sell in our room the warder was sent to another section, and if he could not find any there he was asked to get some from the military "infirmary"--the free infirmary, as we called it. There were always patients ready to sell their rations; poverty was general, and those who possessed a few kopecks used to send out to buy cakes and white bread, or other delicacies, at the market. Warders executed these commissions in a disinterested manner. The most painful moment was that which followed the dinner; some went to sleep, if they had no other way of passing their time; others either wrangled or told stories in a loud voice. When no new patients were brought in, everything became very dull. The arrival of a new patient caused always a certain excitement, above all, if no one knew anything about him; he was questioned about his past life. The most interesting ones were the birds of passage: they had always something to tell. Of course they never spoke of their own little faults. If the prisoner did not enter upon this subject himself, no one questioned him about it. The only thing he was asked was, what quarter he came from? who were with him on the road? what state the road was in? where he was being taken to? etc. Stimulated by the stories of the new comers, our comrades in their turn began to tell what they had seen and done; what was most talked about was the convoys, those in command of them, the men who carried the sentences into execution. About this time, too, towards evening, the convicts who had been scourged came up; they always made a rather strong impression, as I have said; but it was not every day that any of these were brought to us, and everybody was bored to extinction, when nothing happened to give a fillip to the general relaxed and indolent state of feeling. It seemed, then, as though the sick themselves were exasperated at the very sight of those near them. Sometimes they squabbled violently. Our convicts were in high glee when a madman was taken off for medical examination; sometimes those who were sentenced to be scourged, feigned insanity that they might get off. The trick was found out, or it would sometimes be that they voluntarily gave up the pretence. Prisoners, who during two or three days had done all sorts of wild things, suddenly became steady and sensible people, quieted down, and, with a gloomy smile, asked to be taken out of the hospital. Neither the other convicts nor the doctors said a word of remonstrance to them about the deceit, or brought up the subject of their mad pranks. Their names were put down on a list without a word being said, and they were simply taken elsewhere; after the lapse of some days they came back to us with their backs all wounds and blood. On the other hand, the arrival of a genuine lunatic was a miserable thing to see all through the place. Those of the mentally unsound who were gay, lively, who uttered cries, danced, sang, were greeted at first with enthusiasm by the convicts. "Here's fun!" said they, as they looked on the grins and contortions of the unfortunates. But the sight was horribly painful and sad. I have never been able to look upon the mad calmly or with indifference. There was one who was kept three weeks in our room: we would have hidden ourselves, had there been any place to do it. When things were at the worst they brought in another. This one affected me very powerfully. In the first year, or, to be more exact, during the first month of my exile, I went to work with a gang of kiln men to the tileries situate at two versts from our prison. We were set to repairing the kiln in which the bricks were baked in summer. That morning, in which M--tski and B. made me acquainted with the non-commissioned officer, superintendent of the works. This was a Pole already well on in life, sixty years old at least, of high stature, lean, of decent and even somewhat imposing exterior. He had been a long time in service in Siberia, and although he belonged to the lower orders he had been a soldier, and in the rising of 1830--M--tski and B. loved and esteemed him. He was always reading the Vulgate. I spoke to him; his talk was agreeable and intelligent; he told a story in a most interesting way; he was straightforward and of excellent temper. For two years I never saw him again, all I heard was that he had become a "case," and that they were inquiring into it; and then one fine day they brought him into our room; he had gone quite mad. He came in yelling, uttering shouts of laughter, and began to dance in the middle of the room with indecent gestures which recalled the dance known as Kamarinskaïa. The convicts were wild with enthusiasm; but, for my part, account for it as you will, I felt utterly miserable. Three days after, we were all of us upset with it; he got into violent disputes with everybody, fought, groaned, sang in the dead of the night; his aberrations were so inordinate and disgusting as to bring our very stomachs up. He feared nobody. They put the strait-waistcoat on him; but we were no whit better off for it, for he went on quarreling and fighting all round. At the end of three weeks, the room put up an unanimous entreaty to the head doctor that he might be removed to the other apartment reserved for the convicts. But after two days, at the request of the sick people in that other room, they brought him back to our infirmary. As we had two madmen there at once, both rooms kept sending them back and forward, and ended by taking one or the other of the two lunatics, turn and turn about. Everybody breathed more freely when they took them away from us, a good way off, somewhere or other. There was another lunatic whom I remember--a very remarkable creature. They had brought in, during the summer, a man under sentence, who looked like a solid and vigorous fellow enough, of about forty-five years. His face was sombre and sad, pitted with small-pox, with little red and swollen eyes. He sat down by my side. He was extremely quiet; spoke to nobody, and seemed utterly absorbed in his own deep reflections. Night fell; then he addressed me, and, without a word of preface, told me in a hurried and excited way--as if it were a mighty secret he were confiding--that he was to have two thousand strokes with the rod; but that he had nothing to fear, as the daughter of Colonel G---- was taking steps on his behalf. I looked at him with surprise, and observed that, as I saw the affair, the daughter of a Colonel could be of little use in such a case. I had not yet guessed what sort of person I had to do with, for they had brought him to the hospital as a bodily sick person, not mentally. I then asked him what illness he was suffering from. He answered that he knew nothing about it; that he had been sent among us for something or other; but that he was in good health, and that the Colonel's daughter had fallen in love with him. Two weeks before she had passed in a carriage before the guard-house, where he was looking through the barred window, and she had gone head over ears in love at the mere sight of him. After that important moment she had come three times to the guard-house on different pretexts. The first time with her father, ostensibly to visit her brother, who was the officer on service; the second with her mother, to distribute alms to the prisoners. As she passed in front of him she had muttered that she loved him and would get him out of prison. He told me all this nonsense with minute and exact details; all of it pure figment of his poor disordered head. He believed devoutly and implicitly that his punishment would be graciously remitted. He spoke very calmly, and with all assurance of the passionate love he had inspired in this young lady. This odd and romantic delusion about the love of quite a young girl of good breeding, for a man nearly fifty years and afflicted with a face so disfigured and gloomy, simply showed the fearful effect produced by the fear of the punishment he was to have, upon the poor, timid creature. It may be that he had really seen some one through the bars of the window, and the insanity, germinating under excess of fear, had found shape and form in the delusion in question. This unfortunate soldier, who, it may be warranted, had never given a thought to young ladies, had got this romance into his diseased fancy, and clung convulsively to this wild hope. I heard him in silence, and then told the story to the other convicts. When these questioned him in their natural curiosity, he preserved a chastely discreet silence. Next day the doctor examined him. As the madman averred that he was not ill, he was put down on the list as qualified to be sent out. We learned that the physician had scribbled "_Sanat. est_" on the page, when it was quite too late to give him warning. Besides, we were ourselves not by any means sure what was really the matter with the man. The error was with the authorities who had sent him to us, without specifying for what reason it was thought necessary to have him come into the hospital--which was unpardonable negligence. However, two days later the unhappy creature was taken out to be scourged. We understood that he was dumbfounded by finding, contrary to his fixed expectation, that he really was to have the punishment. To the last moment he thought he would be pardoned, and when conducted to the front of the battalion, he began to cry for help. As there was no room or bedding-place now in our apartment they sent him to the infirmary. I heard that for eight entire days he did not utter a single word, and remained in stupid and misery-stricken mental confusion. When his back was cured they took him off. I never heard a single further word about him. As to the treatment of the sick and the remedies prescribed, those who were but slightly indisposed paid no attention whatever to the directions of the doctors, and never took their medicines; while, speaking generally, those really ill were very careful in following the doctor's orders; they took their mixtures and powders; they took all the possible care they could of themselves; but they preferred external to internal remedies. Cupping-glasses, leeches, cataplasms, blood-lettings--in all which things the populace has so blind a confidence--were held in high honour in our hospital. Inflictions of that sort were regarded with satisfaction. There was one thing quite strange, and to me interesting. Fellows, who stood without a murmur the frightful tortures caused by the rods and scourges, howled, and grinned, and moaned for the least little ailment. Whether it was all pretence or not, I really cannot say. We had cuppings of a quite peculiar kind. The machine with which instantaneous incisions in the skin are produced, was all out of order, so they had to use the lancet. For a cupping, twelve incisions are necessary; with a machine these are not painful at all, for it makes them instantaneously; with the lancet it is a different affair altogether--that cuts slowly, and makes the patient suffer. If you have to make ten openings there will be about one hundred and twenty pricks, and these very painful. I had to undergo it myself; besides the pain itself, it caused great nervous irritation; but the suffering was not so great that one could not contain himself from groaning if he tried. It was laughable to see great, hulking fellows wriggling and howling. One couldn't help comparing them to some men, firm and calm enough in really serious circumstances, but all ill-temper or caprice in the bosom of their families for nothing at all; if dinner is late or the like, then they'll scold and swear; everything puts them out; they go wrong with everybody; the more comfortable they really are, the more troublesome are they to other people. Characters of this sort, common enough among the lower orders, were but too numerous in our prison, by reason of our company being forced on one another. Sometimes the prisoners chaffed or insulted the thin-skins I speak of, and then they would leave off complaining directly; as if they only wanted to be insulted to make them hold their tongues. Oustiantsef was no friend of grimacings of this kind, and never let slip an opportunity of bringing that sort of delinquent to his bearings. Besides, he was fond of scolding; it was a sort of necessity with him, engendered by illness and also his stupidity. He would first fix his gaze upon you for some time, and then treat you to a long speech of threatening and warning, and a tone of calm and impartial conviction. It looked as though he thought his function in this world was to watch over order and morality in general. "He must poke his nose into everything," the prisoners with a laugh used to say; for they pitied, and did what they could to avoid conflicts with him. "Has he chattered enough? Three waggons wouldn't be too much to carry away all his talk." "Why need you put your oar in? One is not going to put himself about for a mere idiot. What's there to cry out about at a mere touch of a lancet?" "What harm in the world do you fancy _that_ is going to do you?" "No, comrades," a prisoner strikes in, "the cuppings are a mere nothing. I know the taste of them. But the most horrid thing is when they pull your ears for a long time together. That just shuts you up." All the prisoners burst out laughing. "Have you had them pulled?" "By Jove, yes, I should think he had." "That's why they stick upright, like hop-poles." This convict, Chapkin by name, really had long and quite erect ears. He had long led a vagabond life, was still quite young, intelligent, and quiet, and used to talk with a dry sort of humour with much seriousness on the surface, which made his stories very comical. "How in the world was I to know you had had your ears pulled and lengthened, brainless idiot?" began Oustiantsef, once more wrathfully addressing Chapkin, who, however, vouchsafed no attention to his companion's obliging apostrophe. "Well, who did pull your ears for you?" some one asked. "Why, the police superintendent, by Jove, comrades! Our offence was wandering about without fixed place of abode. We had just got into K----, I and another tramp, Eptinie; he had no family name, that fellow. On the way we had fixed ourselves up a little in the hamlet of Tolmina; yes, there is a hamlet that's got just that name--Tolmina. Well, we get to the town, and are just looking about us a little to see if there's a good stroke of tramp-business to do, after which we mean to flit. You know, out in the open country you're as free as air; but it's not exactly the same thing in the town. First thing, we go into a public-house; as we open the door we give a sharp look all round. What's there? A sunburnt fellow in a German coat all out at elbows, walks right up to us. One thing and another comes up, when he says to us: "'Pray excuse me for asking if you have any papers [passport] with you?' "'No, we haven't.' "'Nor have we either. I have two comrades besides these with me who are in the service of General Cuckoo [forest tramps, _i.e._, who hear the birds sing]. We have been seeing life a bit, and just now haven't a penny to bless ourselves with. May I take the liberty of requesting you to be so obliging as to order a quart of brandy?' "'With the greatest pleasure,' that's what we say to him. So we drink together. Then they tell us of a place where there's a real good stroke of business to be done--a house at the end of the town belonging to a wealthy merchant fellow; lots of good things there, so we make up our minds to try the job during the night; five of us, and the very moment we are going at it they pounce on us, take us to the station-house, and then before the head of the police. He says, 'I shall examine them myself.' Out he goes with his pipe, and they bring in for him a cup of tea; a sturdy fellow it was, with whiskers. Besides us five, there were three other tramps, just brought in. You know, comrades, that there's nothing in this world more funny than a tramp, because he always forgets everything he's done. You may thump his head till you're tired with a cudgel; all the same, you'll get but one answer, that he has forgotten all about everything. "The police superintendent then turns to me and asks me squarely, "'Who may you be?' "I answer just like all the rest of them: "'I've forgotten all about it, your worship.' "'Just you wait; I've a word or two more to say to you. I know your phiz.' "Then he gives me a good long stare. But I hadn't seen him anywhere before, that's a fact. "Then he asks another of them, 'Who are you?' "'Mizzle-and-scud, your worship.' "'They call you Mizzle-and-scud?' "'Precisely that, your worship.' "'Well and good, you're Mizzle-and-scud! And you?' to a third. "'Along-of-him, your worship.' "'But what's your name--your name?' "'Me? I'm called Along-of-him, your worship.' "'Who gave you that name, hound?' "'Very worthy people, your worship. There are lots of worthy people about; nobody knows that better than your worship.' "'And who may these "worthy people" be?' "'Oh, Lord, it has slipped my memory, your worship. Do be so kind and gracious as to overlook it.' "'So you've forgotten them, all of them, these "worthy people"?' "'Every mother's son of them, your worship.' "'But you must have had relations--a father, a mother. Do you remember them?' "'I suppose I must have had, your worship; but I've forgotten about 'em, my memory is so bad. Now I come to think about it, I'm sure I had some, your worship.' "'But where have you been living till now?' "'In the woods, your worship.' "'Always in the woods?' "'Always in the woods!' "'Winter too?' "'Never saw any winter, your worship.' "'Get along with you! And you--what's your name?' "'Hatchets-and-axes, your worship.' "'And yours?' "'Sharp-and-mum, your worship.' "'And you?' "'Keen-and-spry, your worship.' "'And not a soul of you remembers anything that ever happened to you.' "'Not a mother's son of us anything whatever.' "He couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. All the rest began to laugh at seeing him laugh! But the thing does not always go off like that. Sometimes they lay about them, these police, with their fists, till you get every tooth in your jaw smashed. Devilish big and strong these fellows, I can tell you. "'Take them off to the lock-up,' said he. 'I'll see to them in a bit. As for you, stop here!' "That's me. "'Just you go and sit down there.' "Where he pointed to there was paper, a pen, and ink; so thinks I, 'What's he up to now?' "'Sit down,' he says again; 'take the pen and write.' "And then he goes and clutches at my ear and gives it a good pull. I looked at him in the sort of way the devil may look at a priest. "'I can't write, your worship.' "'Write, write!' "'Have mercy on me, your worship!' "'Write your best; write, write!' "And all the while he keeps pulling my ear, pulling and twisting. Pals, I'd rather have had three hundred strokes of the cat; I tell you it was hell. "'Write, write!' that was all he said." "Had the fellow gone mad? What the mischief was it? "Bless us, no! A little while before, a secretary had done a stroke of business at Tobolsk: he had robbed the local treasury and gone off with the money; he had very big ears, just as I have. They had sent the fact all over the country. I answered to that description; that's why he tormented me with his 'Write, write!' He wanted to find out if I could write, and to see my hand. "'A regular sharp chap that! Did it hurt?' "'Oh, Lord, don't say a word about it, I beg.' "Everybody burst out laughing. "'Well, you did write?' "'What the deuce was there to write? I set my pen going over the paper, and did it to such good account that he left off torturing me. He just gave me a dozen thumps, regulation allowance, and then let me go about my business: to prison, that is.' "'Do you really know how to write?' "'Of course I did. What d'ye mean? Used to very well; forgotten the whole blessed thing, though, ever since they began to use pens for it.'" Thanks to the gossip talk of the convicts who filled the hospital, time was somewhat quickened for us. But still, Almighty God, how wearied and bored we were! Long, long were the days, suffocating in their monotony, one absolutely the same as another. If only I had had a single book. For all that I went often to the infirmary, especially in the early days of my banishment, either because I was ill or because I needed rest, just to get out of the worse parts of the prison. In those life was indeed made a burden to us, worse even than in the hospital, especially as regards the effect upon moral sentiment and good feeling. We of the nobility were the never-ceasing objects of envious dislike, quarrels picked with us all the time, something done every moment to put us in the wrong, looks filled with menacing hatred unceasingly directed on us! Here, in the sick-rooms, one lived on a sort of footing of equality, there was something of comradeship. The most melancholy moment of the twenty-four hours was evening, when night set in. We went to bed very early. A smoky lamp just gave us one point of light at the very end of the room, near the door. In our corner we were almost in complete darkness. The air was pestilential, stifling. Some of the sick people could not get to sleep, would rise up, and remain sitting for an hour together on their beds, with their heads bent, as though they were in deep reflection. These I would look at steadily, trying to guess what they might be thinking of; thus I tried to kill time. Then I became lost in my own reveries; the past came up to me again, showing itself to my imagination in large powerful outlines filled with high lights and massive shadows, details that at any other time would have remained in oblivion, presented themselves in vivid force, making on me an impression impossible under any other circumstances. Then I would begin to muse dreamily on the future. When shall I leave this place of restraint, this dreadful prison? Whither betake myself? What will then befall me? Shall I return to the place of my birth? So I brood, and brood, until hope lives once again in my soul. Another time I would begin to count, one, two, three, etc., to see if sleep could be won that way. I would set sometimes as far as three thousand, and was as wakeful as ever. Then somebody would turn in his bed. Then there's Oustiantsef coughing, that cough of the hopelessly-gone consumptive, and then he would groan feebly, and stammer, "My God, I've sinned, I've sinned!" How frightful it was, that voice of the sick man, that broken, dying voice, in the midst of that silence so dead and complete! In a corner there are some sick people not yet asleep, talking in a low voice, stretched on their pallets. One of them is telling the story of his life, all about things infinitely far off; things that have fled for ever; he is talking of his trampings through the world, of his children, his wife, the old ways of his life. And the very accent of the man's voice tells you that all those things are for ever over for him, that he is as a limb cut off from the world of men, cut off, thrown aside; there is another, listening intently to what he is saying. A weak, feeble sort of muttering and murmuring comes to one's ear from far-off in the dreary room, a sound as of far-off water flowing somewhere.... I remember that one time, during a winter night that seemed as if it would never end, I heard a story which at first seemed as if it were the stammerings of a creature in nightmare, or the delirium of fever. Here it is: FOOTNOTE: [4] What I relate about corporal punishment took place during my time. Now, as I am told, everything is changed, and is changing still. CHAPTER IV. THE HUSBAND OF AKOULKA It was late at night, about eleven o'clock. I had been sleeping some time and woke up with a start. The wan and weak light of the distant lamp barely lit the room. Nearly everybody was fast asleep, even Oustiantsef; in the quiet of the night I heard his difficult breathing, and the rattlings in his throat with every respiration. In the ante-chamber sounded the heavy and distant footsteps of the patrol as the men came up. The butt of a gun struck the floor with its low and heavy sound. The door of the room was opened, and the corporal counted the sick, stepping softly about the place. After a minute or so he closed the door again, leaving a fresh sentinel there; the patrol went off, silence reigned again. It was only then that I observed two prisoners, not far from me, who were not sleeping, and who seemed to be holding a muttered conversation. Sometimes, in fact, it would happen that a couple of sick people, whose beds adjoined and who had not exchanged a word for weeks, would all of a sudden break out into conversation with one another, in the middle of the night, and one of them would tell the other his history. Probably they had been speaking for some considerable time. I did not hear the beginning of it, and could not at first seize upon their words, but little by little I got familiar with the muttered sounds, and understood all that was going on. I had not the least desire for sleep on me, so what could I do but listen. One of them was telling his story with some warmth, half-lying on his bed, with his head lifted and stretched towards his companion. He was plainly excited to no little degree; the necessity of speech was on him. The man listening was sitting up on his pallet, with a gloomy and indifferent air, his legs stretched out flat on the mattress, and now and again murmured some words in reply, more out of politeness than interest, and kept stuffing his nose with snuff from a horn box. This was the soldier Techérévin, one of the company of discipline; a morose, cold-reasoning pedant, an idiot full of _amour propre_; while the narrator was Chichkof, about thirty years old; this was a civilian convict, whom up to that time I had not at all observed; and during the whole time I was at the prison I never could get up the smallest interest in him, for he was a conceited, heady fellow. Sometimes he would hold his tongue for weeks together, and look sulky and brutal enough for anything; then all of a sudden he would strike into anything that was going on, behave insufferably, go into a white heat about nothing at all, and tell you long stories with nothing in them whatever about one barrack or another, blowing abuse on all the world, and acting like a man beside himself. Then some one would give him a hiding, and he would have another fit of silence. He was a mean and cowardly fellow, and the object of general contempt. His stature was low, he had little flesh on him, he had wandering eyes, though they sometimes got mixed and seemed filled with a stupid sort of thinking. When he told you anything he worked himself into a fever, gesticulated wildly, suddenly broke off and went to another subject, lost himself in fresh details, and at last forgot altogether what he was talking about. He often got into squabbles, this Chichkof, and when he poured insult on his adversary, he spoke with a sentimental whine and was affected nearly to tears. He was not a bad hand at playing the _balalaika_, and had a weakness for it; on fête days he would show you his dancing powers when others set him at it, and he danced by no means badly. You could easily enough make him do what you wanted ... not that he was of a complying turn, but he liked to please and to get intimate with fellows. For some considerable time I couldn't understand the story Chichkoff was telling; that night I mean. It seemed to me as though he were constantly rambling from the point to talk of something else. Perhaps he had observed that Tchérévine was paying little attention to the narrative, but I fancy that he was minded to overlook this indifference, so as not to take offence. "When he went out on business," he continued, "every one saluted him politely, paid him every respect ... a fellow with money that." "You say that he was in some trade or other." "Yes; trade indeed! The trading class in my country is wretchedly ill-off; just poverty-stricken. The women go to the river and fetch water from ever such a distance to water their gardens. They wear themselves to the very bone, and, for all that, when winter comes, they haven't got enough to make a mere cabbage soup. I tell you it's starvation. But that fellow had a good lump of land, which his labourers cultivated; he had three. Then he had hives, and sold his honey; he was a cattle-dealer too; a much respected man in our parts. He was very old and quite gray, his seventy years lay heavy on his old bones. When he came to the market-place with his fox-skin pelisse, everybody saluted him. "'Good-day, daddy Aukoudim Trophimtych!' "'Good-day,' he'd return. "'How are you getting along;' he never looked down on any one. "'God keep you, Aukoudim Trophimtych!' "'How goes business with you?' "'Business is as good as tallow's white with me; and how's yours, daddy?' "'We've just got enough of a livelihood to pay the price of sin; always sweating over our bit of land.' "'Lord preserve you, Aukoudim Trophimtych!' "He never looked down on anybody. All his advice was always worth having; every one of his words was worth a rouble. A great reader he was, quite a man of learning; but he stuck to religious books. He would call his old wife and say to her, 'Listen, woman, take well in what I say;' then he would explain things. His old Marie Stépanovna was not exactly an old woman, if you please; it was his second wife; he had married her to have children, his first wife had not brought him any. He had two boys still quite young, for the second of them was born when his father was close on sixty; Akoulka, his daughter, was eighteen years old, she was the eldest." "Your wife? Isn't it so?" "Wait a bit, wait. Then Philka Marosof begins to kick up a row. Says he to Aukoudim: 'Let's split the difference. Give me back my four hundred roubles. I'm not your beast of burden; I don't want to do any more business with you, and I don't want to marry your Akoulka. I want to have my fling now that my parents are dead. I'll liquor away my money, then I'll engage myself, 'list for a soldier; and in ten years I'll come back here a field-marshal!' Aukoudim gave him back his money--all he had of his. You see he and Philka's father had both put in money and done business together. "'You're a lost man,' that's what he said to Philka. "'Whether I'm a lost man or not, old gray-beard, you're the biggest cheat I know. You'd try to screw a fortune out of four farthings, and pick up all the dirt about to do it with. I spit upon it. There you are piling up here, digging deep there, the devil only knows why. I've got a will of my own, I tell you. All the same I won't take your Akoulka; I've slept with her already.' "'How dare you insult a respectable father--a respectable girl? When did you sleep with her, you spawn of the sucker, you dog, you hound, you----?' said Aukoudim shaking with passion. (Philka told us all this later). "'I'll not only not marry your daughter, but I'll take good care that nobody marries her, not even Mikita Grigoritch, for she's a disreputable girl. We had a fine time together, she and I, all last autumn. I don't want her at any price. All the money in the world wouldn't make me take her.' "Then the fellow went and had high jinks for a while. All the town was as one man in sending up a cry against him. He got a lot of other fellows round him, for he had a heap of money. Three months he had of it. Such recklessness as you never heard of. Every penny went. "'I want to see the end of this money. I'll sell the house; everything; then I'll 'list or go on the tramp.' "He was drunk from morning to evening, and went about with a carriage and pair. "The girls liked him well, I tell you, for he played the guitar very nicely." "Then it is true that he had been too well with this Akoulka?" "Wait, wait, can't you? I had just buried my father. My mother lived by baking gingerbread. We got our livelihood by working for Aukoudim; barely enough to eat, a precious hard life it was. We had a bit of land the other side of the woods, and grew corn there; but when my father died I went on a spree. I made my mother give me money; but I had to give her a good hiding first." "You were very wrong to beat her; a great sin that?" "Sometimes I was drunk the whole blessed day. We had a house that was just tumbling to pieces with dry rot, still it was our own; we were as near famished as could be; for weeks together we had nothing but rags to chew. Mother nearly killed me with one stupid trick or another, but I didn't care a curse. Philka Marosof and I were always together day and night. 'Play the guitar to me,' he'd say, 'and I'll lie in bed the while. I'll throw money to you, for I'm the richest chap in the world!' The fellow could not speak without lying. There was only one thing. He wouldn't touch a thing if it had been stolen. 'I'm no thief, I'm an honest man. Let's go and daub Akoulka's door with pitch,[5] for I won't have her marry Mikita Grigoritch, I'll stick to that.' "The old man had long meant to give his daughter to this Mikita Grigoritch. He was a man well on in life, in trade too, and wore spectacles. When he heard the story of Akoulka's bad conduct, he said to the old father, 'That would be a terrible disgrace for me, Aukoudim Trophimtych; on the whole, I've made up my mind not to marry; it's to late.' "So we went and daubed Akoulka's door all over with pitch. When we'd done that her folks beat her so that they nearly killed her. "Her mother, Marie Stépanovna, cried, 'I shall die of it,' while the old man said, 'If we were in the days of the patriarchs, I'd have hacked her to pieces on a block. But now everything is rottenness and corruption in this world.' Sometimes the neighbours from one end of the street to the other heard Akoulka's screams. She was whipped from morning to evening, and Philka would cry out in the market-place before everybody: "Akoulka's a jolly girl to get drunk with. I've given it those people between the eyes, they won't forget me in a hurry.' "Well, one day, I met Akoulka, she was going for water with her bucket, so I cried out to her: 'A fine morning, pet Akoulka Koudimovna! you're the girl who knows how to please fellows. Who's living with you now, and where do you get your money for your finery?' That's just what I said to her; she opened her eyes as wide as you please. No more flesh on her than on a log of wood. She had only just given me a look, but her mother thought she was larking with me, and cried from her door-step, 'Impudent hussy, what do you mean by talking with that fellow?' And from that moment they began to beat her again. Sometimes they hided her for an hour together. The mother said, 'I give her the whip because she isn't my daughter any more.'" "She was then as bad as they said?" "Now you just listen to my story, nunky, will you? Well, we used to get drunk all the time with Philka. One day when I was abed, mother comes and says: "'What d'ye mean by lying in bed, you hound, you thief!' She abused me for some time, then she said, 'Marry Akoulka. They'll be glad to give her to you, and they'll give three hundred roubles with her.' "'But,' says I, 'all the world knows that she's a bad girl----' "'Hist, the marriage ceremony cures all that; besides, she'll always be in fear of her life from you, so you'll be in clover together. Their money would make us comfortable; I've spoken about the marriage already to Marie Stépanovna, we're of one mind about it.' "So I say, 'Let's have twenty roubles down on the spot, and I'll have her.' "Well, you needn't believe it unless you please, but I was drunk right up to the wedding-day. Then Philka Marosof kept threatening me all the time. "'I'll break every bone in your body, a nice fellow you to be engaged, and to Akoulka; if I like I'll sleep every blessed night with her when she's your wife.' "'You're a hound, and a liar,' that's what I said to him. But he insulted me so in the street, before everybody, that I ran to Aukoudim's and said, 'I won't marry her unless I have fifty roubles down this moment.'" "And they really did give her to you in marriage?" "Me? Why not, I should like to know? We were respectable people enough. Father had been ruined by a fire a little before he died; he had been a richer man than Aukoudim Trophimtych. "'A fellow without a shirt to his back like you ought to be only too happy to marry my daughter;' that's what old Aukoudim said. "'Just you think of your door, and the pitch that went on it,' I said to him. "'Stuff and nonsense,' said he, 'there's no proof whatever that the girl's gone wrong.' "'Please yourself. There's the door, and you can go about your business; but give back the money you've had!' "Then Philka Marosof and I settled it together to send Mitri Bykoff to Father Aukoudim to tell him that we'd insult him to his face before everybody. Well, I had my skin as full as it could hold right up to the wedding-day. I wasn't sober till I got into the church. When they took us home after church the girl's uncle, Mitrophone Stépanytch, said: "'This isn't a nice business; but it's over and done now.' "Old Aukoudim was sitting there crying, the tears rolled down on his gray beard. Comrade, I'll tell you what I had done: I had put a whip into my pocket before we went to church, and I'd made up my mind to have it out of her with that, so that all the world might know how I'd been swindled into the marriage, and not think me a bigger fool than I am." "I see, and you wanted her to know what was in store for her. Ah, was----?" "Quiet, nunky, quiet! Among our people I'll tell you how it is; directly after the marriage ceremony they take the couple to a room apart, and the others remain drinking till they return. So I'm left alone with Akoulka; she was pale, not a bit of colour on her cheeks; frightened out of her wits. She had fine hair, supple and bright as flax, and great big eyes. She scarcely ever was known to speak; you might have thought she was dumb; an odd creature, Akoulka, if ever there was one. Well, you can just imagine the scene. My whip was ready on the bed. Well, she was as pure a girl as ever was, not a word of it all was true." "Impossible!" "True, I swear; as good a girl as any good family might wish." "Then, brother, why--why--why had she had to undergo all that torture? Why had Philka Marosof slandered her so?" "Yes, why, indeed?" "Well, I got down from the bed, and went on my knees before her, and put my hands together as if I were praying, and just said to her, 'Little mother, pet, Akoulka Koudimovna, forgive me for having been such an idiot as to believe all that slander; forgive me. I'm a hound!' "She was seated on the bed, and gazed at me fixedly. She put her two hands on my shoulders and began to laugh; but the tears were running all down her cheeks. She sobbed and laughed all at once. "Then I went out and said to the people in the other room, 'Let Philka Marosof look to himself. If I come across him he won't be long for this world.' "The old people were beside themselves with delight. Akoulka's mother was ready to throw herself at her daughter's feet, and sobbed. "Then the old man said, 'If we had known really how it was, my dearest child, we wouldn't have given you a husband of that sort.' "You ought to have seen how we were dressed the first Sunday after our marriage--when we left church! I'd got a long coat of fine cloth, a fur cap, with plush breeches. She had a pelisse of hareskin, quite new, and a silk kerchief on her head. One was as fine as the other. Everybody admired us. I must say I looked well, and pet Akoulka did too. One oughtn't to boast, but one oughtn't to sing small. I tell you people like us are not turned out by the dozen." "Not a doubt about it." "Just you listen, I tell you. The day after my marriage I ran off from my guests, drunk as I was, and went about the streets crying, 'Where's that scoundrel of a Philka Marosof? Just let him come near me, the hound, that's all!' I went all over the market-place yelling that out. I was as drunk as a man could be, and stand. "They went after me and caught me close to Vlassof's place. It took three men to get me back again to the house. "Well, nothing else was spoken about all over the village. The girls said, when they met in the market-place, 'Well, you've heard the news--Akoulka was all right!' "A little while after I do come across Philka Marosof, who said to me before everybody, strangers to the place, too, 'Sell your wife, and spend the money on drink. Jackka the soldier only married for that; he didn't sleep one night with his wife; but he got enough to keep his skin full for three years.' "I answered him, 'Hound!' "'But,' says he, 'you're an idiot! You didn't know what you were about when you married--you were drunk. How could you tell all about it?' "So off I went to the house, and cried out to them 'You married me when I was drunk.' "Akoulka's mother tried to fasten herself on me; but I cried, 'Mother, you don't know about anything but money. You bring me Akoulka!' "And didn't I beat her! I tell you I beat her for two hours running, till I rolled on the floor myself with fatigue. She couldn't leave her bed for three weeks." "It's a dead sure thing," said Tchérévine phlegmatically; "if you don't beat them they---- Did you find her with her lover?" "No; to tell the truth, I never actually caught her," said Chichkoff after a pause, speaking with effort; "but I was hurt, a good deal hurt, for every one made fun of me. The cause of it all was Philka. 'Your wife is just made for everybody to look at,' said he. "One day he invited us to see him, and then he went at it. 'Do just look what a good little wife he has! Isn't she tender, fine, nicely brought up, affectionate, full of kindness for all the world? I say, my lad, have you forgotten how we daubed their door with pitch?' I was full at that moment, drunk as may be; then he seized me by the hair and had me down upon the ground before I knew where I was. 'Come along--dance; aren't you Akoulka's husband? I'll hold your hair for you, and you shall dance; it will be good fun.' 'Dog!' said I to him. 'I'll bring some jolly fellows to your house,' said he, 'and I'll whip your Akoulka before your very eyes just as long as I please.' Would you believe it? For a whole month I daren't go out of the house, I was so afraid he'd come to us and drag my wife through the dirt. And how I did beat her for it!" "What was the use of beating her? You can tie a woman's hands, but not her tongue. You oughtn't to give them a hiding too often. Beat 'em a bit, then scold 'em well, then fondle 'em; that's what a woman is made for." Chichkoff remained quite silent for a few moments. "I was very much hurt," he went on; "I began it again just as before. I beat her from morning till night for nothing; because she didn't get up from her seat the way I liked; because she didn't walk to suit me. When I wasn't hiding her, time hung heavy on my hands. Sometimes she sat by the window crying silently--it hurt my feelings sometimes to see her cry, but I beat her all the same. Sometimes her mother abused me for it: 'You're a scoundrel, a gallows-bird!' 'Don't say a word or I'll kill you; you made me marry her when I was drunk, you swindled me.' Old Aukoudim wanted at first to have his finger in the pie. Said he to me one day: 'Look here, you're not such a tremendous fellow that one can't put you down;' but he didn't get far on that track. Marie Stépanovna had become as sweet as milk. One day she came to me crying her eyes out and said: 'My heart is almost broken, Ivan Semionytch; what I'm going to ask of you is a little thing for you, but it is a good deal to me; let her go, let her leave you, daddy Ivan.' Then she throws herself at my feet. 'Do give up being so angry! Wicked people slander her; you know quite well she was good when you married her.' Then she threw herself at my feet again and cried. But I was as hard as nails. 'I won't hear a word you have to say; what I choose to do, I do, to you or anybody, for I'm crazed with it all. As to Philka Marosof, he's my best and dearest friend.'" "You'd begun to play your pranks together again, you and he?" "No, by Jove! He was out of the way by this time; he was killing himself with drink, nothing less. He had spent all he had on drink, and had 'listed for a soldier, as substitute for a citizen body in the town. In our parts, when a lad makes up his mind to be substitute for another, he is master of that house and everybody there till he's called to the ranks. He gets the sum agreed on the day he goes off, but up to then he lives in the house of the man who buys him, sometimes six whole months, and there isn't a horror in the whole world those fellows are not guilty of. It's enough to make folks take the holy images out of the house. From the moment he consents to be substitute for the son of the family then he considers himself their patron and benefactor, and makes them dance as he pipes, or else he goes off the bargain. "So Philka Marosof played the very mischief at the home of this townsman. He slept with the daughter, pulled the master of the house by the beard after dinner, did anything that came into his head. They had to heat the bath for him every day, and, what's more, give him brandy fumes with the steam of the bath: and he would have the women lead him by the arms to the bath room.[6] "When he came back to the man's house after a revel elsewhere, he would stop right in the middle of the road and cry out: "'I won't go in by the door; pull down the fence!' "And they actually _had_ to pull down the fence, though there was the door right at it to let him in. That all came to an end though, the day they took him to the regiment. That day he was sobered sufficiently. The crowd gathered all through the street. "'They're taking off Philka Marosof!' "He made a salute on all sides, right and left. Just at that moment Akoulka was returning from the kitchen-garden. Directly Philka saw her he cried out to her: "'Stop!' and down he jumped from the cart and threw himself down at her feet. "'My soul, my sweet little strawberry, I've loved you two years long. Now they're taking me off to the regiment with the band playing. Forgive me, good honest girl of a good honest father, for I'm nothing but a hound, and all you've gone through is my fault.' "Then he flings himself down before her a second time. At first Akoulka was exceedingly frightened; but she made him a great bow, which nearly bent her double. "'Forgive me, too, my good lad; but I am really not at all angry with you.' "As she went into the house I was at her heels. "'What did you say to him, you she-devil, you?' "Now you may believe it or not as you like, but she looked at me as bold as you please, and answered: "'I love him better than anything or anybody in this world.' "'I say!' "That day I didn't utter one single word. Only towards evening I said to her: 'Akoulka, I'm going to kill you now.' I didn't close an eye the whole night. I went into the little room leading to ours and drank kwass. At daybreak I went into the house again. 'Akoulka, get ready and come into the fields.' I had arranged to go there before; my wife knew it. "'You are right,' said she. 'It's quite time to begin reaping. I've heard that our labourer is ill and doesn't work a bit.' "I put to the cart without saying a word. As you go out of the town there's a forest fifteen versts in length. At the end of it is our field. When we had gone about three versts through the wood I stopped the horse. "'Come, get up, Akoulka; your end is come.' "She looked at me all in a fright, and got up without a word. "'You've tormented me enough. Say your prayers.' "I seized her by the hair--she had long, thick tresses--I rolled them round my arm. I held her between my knees; took out my knife; threw her head back, and cut her throat. She screamed; the blood spurted out. Then I threw away my knife. I pressed her with all my might in my arms. I put her on the ground and embraced her, yelling with all my might. She screamed; I yelled; she struggled and struggled. The blood--her blood--splashed my face, my hands. It was stronger than I was--stronger. Then I took fright. I left her--left my horse and began to run; ran back to the house. "I went in the back way, and hid myself in the old ramshackle bath-house, which we never used now. I lay myself down under the seat, and remained hid till the dead of the night." "And Akoulka?" "She got up to come back to the house; they found her later, a hundred steps from the place." "So you hadn't finished her?" "No." Chichkoff stopped a while. "Yes," said Tchérévine, "there's a vein; if you don't cut it at the first the man will go on struggling; the blood may flow fast enough, but he won't die." "But she was dead all the same. They found her in the evening, and she was cold. They told the police, and hunted me up. They found me in the night in the old bath. "And there you have it. I've been four years here already," added he, after a pause. "Yes, if you don't beat 'em you make no way at all," said Tchérévine sententiously, taking out his snuff-box once more. He took his pinches very slowly, with long pauses. "For all that, my lad, you behaved like a fool. Why, I myself--I came upon my wife with a lover. I made her come into the shed, and then I doubled up a halter and said to her: "'To whom did you swear to be faithful?--to whom did you swear it in church? Tell me that?' "And then I gave it her with my halter--beat her and beat her for an hour and a half; till at last she was quite spent, and cried out: "'I'll wash your feet and drink the water afterwards.' "Her name was Crodotia." FOOTNOTES: [5] Daubing the door of a house, where a young girl lives, is done to show that she is dishonoured. [6] A mark of respect paid in Russia formerly, now disused. CHAPTER V. THE SUMMER SEASON April is come; Holy Week is not far off. We set about our summer tasks. The sun becomes hotter and more brilliant every day; the atmosphere has the spring in it, and acts upon our nervous system powerfully. The convict, in his chains, feels the trembling influence of the lovely days like any other creature; they rouse desires in him, inexpressible longings for his home, and many other things. I think that he misses his liberty, yearns for freedom more when the day is filled with sunlight than during the rainy and melancholy days of autumn and winter. You may observe this positively among convicts; if they _do_ feel a little joy on a beautiful clear day, they have a reaction into greater impatience and irritability. I noticed that in spring there was much more squabbling in our prison; there was more noise, the yelling was greater, there were more fights; during the working hours we would see a man sometimes fixed in a meditative gaze, which seemed lost in the blue distance somewhere, the other side of the Irtych, where stretched the boundless plain, with its flight of hundreds of versts, the free Kirghiz Steppe. Long-drawn sighs came to one's ear, sighs breathed from the depths of the chest; it might seem that the air of those wide and free regions, haunted by their thought, forced the convicts to draw deep respirations, and was a sort of solace to their crushed and fettered souls. "Ah!" cries at last the poor prisoner all at once, with a long, sighing cry; then he seizes his pick furiously, or picks up the bricks, which he has to carry from one place to another. But after a brief minute he seems to forget the passing impression, and begins laughing, or insulting people near, so fitful is his humour; then he attacks the work he has to do with unusual fire, labours with might and main, as if trying to stifle by fatigue the grief that has him by the throat. You see they are fellows of unimpaired vigour, all in the very flower of life, with all their physical and other strength about them. How heavy the irons are during this season! All this is not sentimentality, it is the report of rigorous observation. During the hot season, under a fiery sun, when all one's being, all one's soul, is vividly conscious of, and intimately feels, the unspeakably strong resurrection of nature going on everywhere, it is more difficult to support the confinement, the perpetual surveillance, the tyranny of a will other than one's own. Besides this, it is in spring with the first song of the lark that throughout all Siberia and Russia men set out on the tramp; God's creatures, if they can, break their prison and escape into the woods. After the stifling ditch where they work, after the boats, the irons, the rods and whips, they go vagabondizing where they please, wherever they can make it out best; they eat and drink what they can get, 'tis all the time pot-luck with them; and by night they sleep undisturbed in the woods or in a field, without a care, without the agony of knowing themselves in prison, as if they were God's own birds; their "good-night" is said to the stars, and the eye that watches them is the eye of God. Not altogether a rosy life, by any means; sometimes hunger and fatigue are heavy on them "in the service of General Cuckoo." Often enough the wanderers have not a morsel of bread to keep their teeth going for days and days. They have to hide from everybody, run to earth like marmots; sometimes they are driven to robbery, pillage--nay, even murder. "Send a man there and he becomes a child, and just throws himself on all he sees"; that is what people say of those transported to Siberia. This saying may be applied even more fitly to the tramps. They are almost all brigands and thieves, by necessity rather than inclination. Many of them are hardened to the life, irreclaimable; there are convicts who go off after having served their time, even after they have been put on some land as their own. They ought to be happy in their new state, with their daily bread assured them. Well, it is not so; an irresistible impulse sends them wandering off. This life in the woods, wretched and fearful as it is, but still free and adventurous, has a mysterious seduction for those who have experienced it; among these fugitives you may find to your surprise, people of good habit of mind, peaceable temper, who had shown every promise of becoming settled creatures--good tillers of the land. A convict will marry, have children, live for five years in the same place, then all of a sudden he will disappear one fine morning, abandoning wife and children, to the stupefaction of his family and the whole neighbourhood. One day, I was shown at the convict establishment one of these deserters of the family hearthstone. He had committed no crime--at least, he was under suspicion of none--but all through his life he had been a deserter, a deserter from every post. He had been to the southern frontier of the empire, the other side of the Danube, in the Kirghiz Steppe, in Eastern Siberia, the Caucasus, in a word, everywhere. Who knows? under other conditions this man might have been a Robinson Crusoe, with the passion of travel so on him. These details I have from other convicts, for he did not like talk, and never opened his mouth except when absolutely necessary. He was a peasant, of quite small size, of some fifty years, very quiet in demeanour, with a face so still as to seem quite without any sort of meaning, impassive almost to idiotcy. His delight was to sit for hours in the sun humming a sort of song between his teeth so softly, that five steps off he was inaudible. His features were, so to speak, petrified; he ate little, principally black bread; he never bought white bread or spirits; my belief is, he never had had any money, and that he couldn't have counted it if he had. He was indifferent to everything. Sometimes he fed the prison dogs with his own hand, a thing no one else was known to do; (speaking generally, Russians don't like giving dogs things to eat from the hand). People said that he had been married, twice even, and that he had children somewhere. Why he had been sent as a convict, I have not the least idea. We fellows were always fancying that he would escape; but his hour did not come, or perhaps had come and gone; anyhow, he went through with his punishment without resistance. He seemed an element quite foreign to the medium wherein he had his being, an alien, self-concentrated creature. Still, there was nothing in this deep surface calm which could be trusted; yet, after all, what good would it have been to him to escape from the place? Compared with life at the convict prison, the vagabond age of the forests is as the joys of Paradise. The tramp's lot is wretched enough, but at least free. So it is that every prisoner all over the soil of Russia, becomes restless with the first rays of the smiling spring. Comparatively few form any settled plan for flight, they fear the hindrances in the way and the punishment that may ensue; only one in a hundred, not more, make up his mind to it, but how to do it is a thought that never ceases to haunt the minds of the ninety-nine others. Filled as they are with this longing, anything that looks like giving a chance of success is a comfort to them; then they set about comparing the facts with cases of successful escape. I speak only of prisoners after and under sentence, for prisoners not yet tried and condemned, are much more ready to try at an escape. And those who have been sentenced, rarely get away unless they attempt it in early days. When they have spent two or three years of their time, they put them to a sort of credit-account in their minds, and conclude that it is better to finish with the law and be put on land as a free man, rather than forfeit that time if they fail in escaping, which is always a possibility. Certainly not more than one convict in ten succeeds in _changing his lot_. Those who do, are nearly always men sentenced to an extremely long punishment, or for life. Fifteen, twenty years seem like an eternity to them. Then there is the branding, which is a great difficulty in the way of complete escape. _Changing your lot_ is a technical expression. When a convict is caught trying to escape, he is subjected to formal interrogatory, and will say he wanted to _change his lot_. This somewhat literary formula exactly represents the act in question. No escaped prisoner ever hopes to become a perfectly free man, for he knows that it is nearly impossible; what he looks for is to be sent to some other convict establishment, or to be put on the land, or to be tried again for some offence committed when on the tramp; in a word, to be sent anywhere else, it matters not where, so that he get out of his present prison which has become insufferable to him. All these fugitives, unless they find some unexpected shelter for the winter, unless they meet some one interested in concealing them, or if--last resort--they cannot procure--and sometimes a murder does it--the legal document, which enables them to go about unmolested everywhere; all these fugitives present themselves in crowds, during the autumn, in the towns and at the prisons; they confess themselves to be escaped tramps, pass the winter in jail, and live in the secret hope of getting away the following summer. On me, as well as others, the spring exercised its influence. Well do I remember the avidity with which my gaze fed upon the horizon through the gaps in the palisades; long, long did I stand with my head glued to the pickets, obstinately and insatiably gazing on the grass greening in the ditch surrounding the fortress, and at the blue of the distant sky as it grew denser and denser. My anguish, my melancholy, were heavier on me; as each day wore away the jail became odious, detestable. Hatred for me, as a man of the nobility, filled the hearts of the convicts during these first years, and this feeling of theirs simply poisoned my life for me. Often did I ask to be sent to the hospital, when there was no need of it, merely to be out of the punishment part of the place, to feel myself out of the range of this unrelenting and implacable hostility. "You nobles have beaks of iron, and you tore us to pieces with your beaks when we were serfs," is what the convicts used to say to us. How I envied the people of the lower class who came into the place as prisoners! It was different with them, they were in comradeship with all there from the very first moment. So was it that in the spring, Freedom showing herself as a sort of phantom of the season, the joy diffused throughout all Nature, translated themselves within my soul into a more than doubled melancholy and nervous irritability. As the sixth week of Lent came I had to go through my religious exercises, for the convicts were divided by the sub-superintendent into seven sections--answering to the weeks in Lent--and these had to attend to their devotions according to this roster. Each section was composed of about thirty men. This week was a great solace to me; we went two or three times a day to the church, which was close to the prison. I had not been in church for a long time. The Lenten services, familiar to me from early childhood in my father's house, the solemn prayers, the prostrations--all stirred in me the fibres of the memory of things long, long past, and woke my earliest impressions to fresh life. Well do I remember how happy I was when at morn we went into God's house, treading the ground which had frozen in the night, under the escort of soldiers with loaded guns; the escort remained outside the church. Once within we were massed close to the door so that we could scarcely hear anything except the deep voice of the ministering deacon; now and again we caught a glimpse of a black chasuble or the bare head of the priest. Then it came into my mind how, when a child, I used to look at the common people who formed a compact mass at the door, and how they would step back in a servile way before some important epauletted fellow, or some nobleman with a big paunch, some lady splendidly dressed and of high devotion who, in a hurry to get at the front benches, and ready for a row if there was any difficulty as to their being honoured with the best of places. As it seemed to me then, it was only _there_, near the church door, not far from the entry, that prayer was put up with genuine fervour and humility, only there that, when people did prostrate themselves on the floor it was done with real abasement of self and full sense of unworthiness. And now I myself was in that place of the common people, no, not in their place, for we who were there were in chains and degradation. Everybody kept himself at a distance from us. We were feared, and alms were put in our hands as if we were beggars; I remember that all this gave me the strange sensation of a refined and subtle pleasure. "Let it even be so!" such was my thought. The convicts prayed with deep fervour; every one of them had with him his poor farthing for a little candle, or for their collection for the church expenses. "I too, I am a man," each one of them perhaps said, as he made his offering; "before God we are all equal." After the six o'clock mass we went up to communion. When the priest, _ciforium_ in hand, recited the words, "Have mercy on me as Thou hadst on the thief whom Thou didst save," nearly all the convicts prostrated themselves, and their chains clanked; I think they took these words literally as applied to themselves, and not as being in Scripture. Holy Week came. The authorities presented each of us with an Easter egg, and a small piece of wheaten bread. The townspeople loaded us with benevolences. As at Christmas there was the priest's visitation with the cross, inspecting visit of the heads of departments, larded cabbage, general enlargement of soul, and unlimited lounging, the only difference being, that one could now walk about in the court-yard, and warm oneself in the sun. Everything seemed filled with more light, larger than in the winter, but also more fraught with sadness. The long, endless, summer days seemed peculiarly unbearable on Church holidays. Work days were at least shortened to our sense by the fatigue of work. Our summer labours were much more trying than the winter tasks; our business was principally that of carrying out engineering works. The convicts were set to building, digging, bricklaying, or repairing Government buildings, locksmith's work, or carpentering, or painting. Others went into the brick-fields, and that was looked upon by us as the hardest of all we had laid on us. The brick-fields were situated about four versts from the fortress; through all the summer they sent there, every morning at six o'clock, a gang of fifty convicts. For this gang they used to pick out workmen who had learned no trade in particular. The convicts took with them their bread for the day, the distance was too great for them to come back, eight useless versts, for dinner with the others, so they had a meal when they returned in the evening. Work was assigned to each for the day, but there was so much of it that it was all a man could do, nay, more, to get to the end of it. First, we had to dig and carry the clay, moisten it, and mould it in the ditch, and then make a goodly quantity of bricks, two hundred or so, sometimes fifty more than that. I was only twice sent to the brick-field. The convicts sent to this labour came back in the evening dead tired, and every one of them complained of the others, that he had had the worst of the work put on him. I believe that reproaches of this kind were a pleasure, a consolation to them. Some of them, however, liked the brick-field work, because they got away from the town, and to the banks of the Irtych into open, agreeable country, with the sky overhead; the surroundings were more agreeable than those frightful Government buildings. They were allowed to smoke there in all freedom, and to remain lying down for half-an-hour or so, which was a great pleasure. As for me, I was sent to one of the shops, or else to pound up alabaster, or to carry bricks, which last job I had for two months together. I had to take my tale of bricks from the banks of the Irtych to a distance of about 140 yards, and to pass the ditch of the fortress before getting to the barrack which they were putting up. This work suited me well enough, although the cord with which I carried my bricks sawed my shoulders; what particularly pleased me was that my strength increased sensibly. At the outset I could not carry more than eight bricks at once; each of them weighed about twelve pounds. I got to be able to carry twelve, or even fifteen, which delighted me much. You wanted physical as well as moral strength to be able to bear all the discomforts of that accursed life. There was this, too: I wanted, when I left the place, really to live, not to be half-dead. I took pleasure in carrying my bricks, then; it was not merely that this labour strengthened my body, but because it took me always to the banks of the Irtych. I speak often of this spot, it was the only one where we saw God's _own_ world, a pure and bright horizon, the free desert steppes, whose bareness always produced a strange impression on me. All the other workyards were in the fortress itself, or in its neighbourhood; and the fortress, from the earliest days I was there, was the object of my hatred, and, above all, its appurtenant buildings. The house of the Major Commandant seemed to me a repulsive, accursed place. I never could pass it without casting upon it a look of detestation; while at the river-bank I could forget my miserable self as I sent my gaze over the immense desert space, just as a prisoner may when he looks at the world of freedom through the barred casement of his dungeon. Everything in that place was dear and gracious to my eyes; the sun shining in the infinite blue of heaven, the distant song of the Kirghiz that came from the opposite bank. Sometimes I would fix my sight for a long while upon the poor smoky cabin of some _baïgouch_; I would study the bluish smoke as it curled in the air, the Kirghiz woman busy with her two sheep.... The things I saw were wild, savage, poverty-stricken; but they were free. I would follow the flight of a bird threading its way in the pure transparent air; now it skims the water, now disappears in the azure sky, now suddenly comes to view again, a mere point in space. Even the poor wee floweret fading in a cleft of the bank, which would show itself when spring began, fixed my attention and would draw my tears.... The melancholy of this first year of convict life and hard labour was unendurable, too much for my strength. The anguish of it was so great, I could not notice my immediate surroundings at all; I merely shut my eyes and would not see. Among the creatures with spoiled lives with whom I had to live, I did not yet note those who were capable of thinking and feeling, in spite of their external repulsiveness. There came not to my ears (or if there did I knew it not) one word of kindliness in the midst of the rain of poisonous talk that came down all the time. Still one such utterance there was, simple, straightforward, of pure motive, and it came from the heart of a man who had suffered and endured more than myself. But it is useless to enlarge on this. The great fatigue I underwent was a source of satisfaction, it gave me hope of sound sleep. During the summer sleep was torment, more intolerable than the closeness and infection winter brought with it. Some of the nights were certainly very beautiful. The sun, which had not ceased to inundate the court-yard all the day, hid itself at last. The air freshened, and the night, the night of the steppe, became comparatively cold. The convicts, until shut up in their barracks, walked about in groups, especially on the kitchen side; for that was the place where questions of general interest were by preference discussed, and comments were made upon the rumours from without, often absurd indeed, but always keenly exciting to these men cut off from the world. For example, we suddenly learn that our Major had been roughly dismissed from his post. Convicts are as credulous as children; they know the news to be false, or most unlikely, and that the fellow who brings it is a past master in the art of lying, Kvassoff; for all that they clutch at the nonsensical story, go into high delight over it, are much consoled, and at last quite ashamed to have been duped by a Kvassoff. "I should like to know who'll show _him_ the door?" cries one convict; "don't you fear, he's a fellow who knows how to stick on." "But," says another, "he has his superiors over him." This one is a warm controversialist, and has seen the world. "Wolves don't feed on one another," says a third gloomily, half to himself. _This_ one is an old fellow, growing gray, and he always takes his sour cabbage soup into a corner, and eats it there. "Do you think his superiors will take _your_ advice whether they shall show him the door or not?" adds a fourth, who doesn't seem to care about it at all, giving a stroke to his balalaïka. "Well, why not?" replies the second angrily; "if you _are_ asked, answer what's in your mind. But no, with us fellows it's all mere cry, and when you ought to go at things with a will, everybody sneaks out." "That's _so_!" says the one playing with the balalaïka. "Hard labour and prison are just the things to cause _that_." "It was like that the other day," says the second one, without hearing the remark made to him. "There was a little wheat left, sweepings, a mere nothing; there was some idea of turning the refuse into money; well, look here, they took it to him, and he confiscated it. All economy, you see. Was that _so_, and was it right--yes or no?" "But whom can you complain to?" "To whom? Why, the 'spector (_Inspector_) who's coming." "What 'spector?" "It's true, pals, a 'spector is coming soon," said a youthful convict, who had got some sort of knowledge, had read the "Duchesse de la Vallière," or some book of that sort, and who had been Quartermaster in a regiment; a bit of a wag, whom, as a man of information, the convicts held in a sort of respect. Without paying the least attention to the exciting debate, he goes straight to the cook, and asks him for some liver. Our cooks often deal in victuals of that kind; they used to buy a whole liver, cut it in pieces, and sell it to the other convicts. "Two kopecks' worth, or four?" asks cook. "A four-kopeck cut; I'll eat, the others shall look on and long," says this convict. "Yes, pals, a general, a real general, is coming from Petersburg to 'spect all Siberia; it's so, heard it at the Governor's place." This news produces an extraordinary effect. For a quarter of an hour they ask each other who this General can be? what's his title? whether his grade is higher than that of the Generals of our town? The convicts delight in discussing ranks and degrees, in finding out who's at the head of things, who can make the other officials crook their backs, and to whom he crooks his own; so they get up an argument and quarrel about their Generals, and rude words fly about, all in honour of these high officers--fights, too, sometimes. What interest can _they_ possibly have in it? When one hears convicts speaking of Generals and high officials one gets a measure of their intelligence as they were while still in the world before the prison days. It cannot be concealed that among our people, even in much higher circles, talk about generals and high officials is looked upon as the most serious and refined conversation. "Well, you see, they _have_ sent our Major to the right about, don't ye?" observes Kvassoff, a little, rubicund, choleric, small-brained fellow, the same who had announced the supersession of the Major. "We'll just grease their palm for them," this, in staccato tones from the morose old fellow in the corner who had finished his sour cabbage soup. "I should think he would grease their palms, by Jove," says another; "he has stolen money enough, the brigand. And, only think, he was only a regimental Major before he came here. He's feathered his nest. Why, a little while ago he was engaged to the head priest's daughter." "But he didn't get married; they turned him off, and that shows he's poor. A pretty sort of fellow to get engaged! He's got nothing but the coat on his back; last year, Easter time, he lost all he had at cards. Fedka told me so." "Well, well, pals, I've been married myself, but it's a bad thing for a poor devil; taking a wife is soon done, but the fun of it is more like an inch than a mile," observes Skouratoff, who had just joined in the general talk. "Do you fancy we're going to amuse ourselves by discussing _you_?" says the ex-quartermaster in a superior manner. "Kvassoff, I tell you you're a big idiot! If you fancy that the Major can grease the palm of an Inspector-General you've got things finely muddled; d'ye fancy they send a man from Petersburg just to inspect your Major? You're a precious dolt, my lad; take it from me that it is so." "And you fancy because he's a General he doesn't take what's offered?" said some one in the crowd in a sceptical tone. "I should think he did indeed, and plenty of it whenever he can." "A dead sure thing that; gets bigger, and more, and worse, the higher the rank." "A General _always_ has his palm greased," says Kvassoff, sententiously. "Did _you_ ever give them money, as you're so sure of it?" asks Baklouchin, suddenly striking in, in a tone of contempt; "come, now, did you ever see a General in all your life?" "Yes." "Liar!" "Liar, yourself!" "Well, boys, as he _has_ seen a General, let him say _which_. Come, quick about it; I know 'em all, every man jack." "I've seen General Zibert," says Kvassoff in tones far from sure. "Zibert! There's no General of that name. That's the General, perhaps, who was looking at your back when they gave you the cat. This Zibert was, perhaps, a Lieutenant-Colonel; but you were in such a fright just then, you took him for a General." "No! Just hear me," cries Skouratoff, "for I've got a wife. There was really a General of that name, a German, but a Russian subject. He confessed to the Pope, every year, all about his peccadilloes with gay women, and drank water like a duck, at least forty glasses of Moskva water one after the other; that was the way he got cured of some disease. I had it from his valet." "I say! And the carp didn't swim in his belly?" this from the convict with the balalaïka. "Be quiet, fellows, can't you--one's talking seriously, and there they are beginning their nonsense again. Who's the 'spector that's coming?" This was put by a convict who always seemed full of business, Martinof, an old man who had been in the Hussars. "Set of lying fellows!" said one of the doubters. "Lord knows where they get it all from; it's all empty talk." "It's nothing of the sort," observes Koulikoff, majestically silent hitherto, in dogmatic tones. "The man coming is big and fat, about fifty years, with regular features, and proud, contemptuous manners, on which he prides himself." Koulikoff is a Tsigan, a sort of veterinary surgeon, makes money by treating horses in town, and sells wine in our prison. He's no fool, plenty of brain, memory well stocked, lets his words fall as carefully as if every one of 'em was worth a rouble. "It's true," he went on very calmly, "I heard of it only last week; it's a General with bigger epaulettes than most, and he's going to inspect all Siberia. They grease his palm well for him, that's sure enough; but not our Major with his eight eyes in his head. He won't dare to creep in about _him_, for you see, pals, there are Generals and Generals, as there are fagots and fagots. It's just this, and you may take it from me, our Major will remain where he is. _We're_ fellows with no tongue, we've no right to speak; and as to our chiefs here, they're not going to say a word against him. The 'spector will come into our jail, give a look round, and go off at once; he'll say it was all right." "Yes, but the Major's in a fright; he's been drunk since morning." "And this evening he had two van-loads of things taken away; Fedka says so." "You may scrub a nigger, he'll never be white. Is it the first time you've seen him drunk, hey?" "No! It will be a devil of a shame if the General does nothing to him," said the convicts, who began to get highly excited. The news of the arrival of the Inspector went through the prison. The prisoners went everywhere about the court-yard retailing the important fact. Some held their tongues and kept cool, trying to look important; some were really indifferent to it. Some of the convicts sat down on the steps of the doors to play the balalaïka, while some went on with their gossip. Some groups were singing in a drawling voice, but the whole court-yard was upset and excited generally. About nine o'clock they counted us, and quartered us in our barracks, which were closed for the night. A short summer night it was, so we were roused up at five o'clock in the morning, yet nobody had managed to sleep before eleven, for up to that hour there was conversation and all sort of movement was going on; sometimes, too, games of cards were made up, as in winter. The heat was intolerable, stifling. True, the open window let in some of the cool night air, but the convicts kept tossing themselves on their wooden beds as if delirious. Fleas countless. There were enough of them in winter; but when spring came they multiplied in proportions so formidable that I couldn't believe it before I had to endure them. And as the summer went on the worse it was with them. I found out that one _could_ get used to fleas; but for all that, the torment of them is so great that it throws you into a fever; even when you get slumber you quite feel it is not sleep, you are half delirious, and know it. At last, towards morning, when the enemy is tired and you are deliciously asleep in the freshness of the early hours, suddenly sounds the pitiless morning drum-call. How you curse as you hear them, those sharp, quick strokes; you cower in your semi-pelisse, and then--you can't help it--comes the thought that it will be so to-morrow, the day after, for many, many years, till you are set at liberty. When _will_ it come, this freedom, freedom? Where _is_ it in this world? _Where_ is it hiding? You _have_ to get up, they are walking about you in all directions. The usual noisy row begins. The convicts dress, and hurry to their work. It's true you have an hour you can spend in sleep at noon. What we had been told about the Inspector was really true. The reports were more confirmed every day; and at last it became certain that a General, high in office, was coming from Petersburg to inspect all Siberia, that he was already at Tobolsk. Every day we learned something fresh about it. These rumours came from the town. They told us that there was alarm in all quarters, and that everybody was making preparations to show himself in as favourable a light as might be. The authorities were organising receptions, balls, fêtes of every kind. Gangs of convicts were sent to level the ways in the fortress, smooth away hummocks in the ground, paint the palings and other wood-work, to plaster, do up, and generally repair everything that was conspicuous. Our prisoners perfectly well understood the object of this labour, and their discussions became all the more animated and excited. Their imaginations passed all bounds. They even set about formulating some demands to be set before the General on his arrival, but that did not prevent their going on with their quarrels and violent speeches. Our Major was on hot coals. He came continually to visit the jail, shouted, and threw himself angrily on the fellows more than usual, sent them to the guard-room and punishment for a mere nothing, and watched very severely over the cleanliness and good order of the barracks. Just then, there occurred a little event which did not at all painfully affect this officer as one might have expected, but, on the contrary, caused him a lively satisfaction. One of the convicts struck another with an awl right in the chest, in a place quite near the heart. The delinquent's name was Lomof; the name the victim was known by in the jail was Gavrilka. He was one of those seasoned tramps I've spoken about earlier. Whether he had any other name, I don't know; I never heard any attributed to him, except that one, Gavrilka. Lomof had been a peasant comfortably off in the Government of T----, and district of K----. There were five of them living together, two brothers Lomof, and three sons. They were quite rich peasants; the talk throughout the district was that they had more than 300,000 roubles in paper money. They worked at currying and tanning; but their chief business was usury, harbouring tramps, and receiving stolen goods; all sorts of petty irregular doings. Half the peasants of their district owed them money, and so were in their clutches. They passed for being intelligent and full of cunning, and gave themselves very great airs. A great personage of their province had stopped on his way once at the father Lomof's house, and this official had taken a fancy to him, because of his hardy and unscrupulous talk. Then they took it in their heads they might do exactly as they pleased, and mixed themselves up more and more with illegal doings. Everybody had a grievance against them, and would like to have seen them a hundred feet under the ground; but they got bolder and bolder every day. They were not afraid of the local police or the district tribunals. At last fortune betrayed them; their ruin came, not out of their secret crimes, but from an accusation which was all calumny and falsehood. Ten versts from their hamlet they had a farm where six Kirghiz labourers, long since brought down by them to be no better than slaves, used to pass the autumn. One fine day these Kirghiz were found murdered. An inquiry was set on foot that lasted long, thanks to which no end of atrocious things were brought to light. The Lomofs were accused of having assassinated their workmen. They had themselves told their story to the convicts, all the jail knew it perfectly; they were suspected of owing a great deal of money to the Kirghiz, and, as they were full of greed and avarice in spite of their large fortunes, it was believed they had paid the debt by taking the lives of the poor fellows. While the inquiry and trial went on, their property melted away utterly. The father died, the sons were transported; one of these, with the uncle, was condemned to fifteen years of hard labour. Now, they were perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to them. One fine day Gavrilka, a thorough-paced rascal, known as a tramp, but of very gay and lively turn, avowed himself the author of the crime. As a matter of fact I don't know whether he actually made this avowal himself, but what is sure is that the convicts held him to be the murderer of the Kirghiz. This Gavrilka, while still tramping about, had been mixed up in some way with the Lomofs (his confinement in one jail was for quite a short sentence, for desertion from the army and tramping). He had cut the throats of the Kirghiz--three other marauding fellows had been in it with him--in the hope of setting themselves up a bit with the plunder of the farm. The Lomofs were no favourites with us, I really don't know why. One of them, the nephew, was a sturdy fellow, intelligent and sociable; but his uncle, the one that struck Gavrilka with the awl, was a choleric, stupid rustic, always quarrelling with the convicts, who knocked him about like plaster. All the jail liked Gavrilka for his gaiety and good-humour. The Lomofs got to know, like the rest, that he was the man who committed the crime they were condemned for; but they never got into any quarrel with him. Gavrilka paid no attention whatever to them. The row with Uncle Lomof began about some disgusting girl they had quarrelled over. Gavrilka had boasted of the favour she had shown him. The peasant, mad with jealousy, ended by driving an awl into his chest. Although the Lomofs had been ruined by their trial and sentence, they passed in the jail for being very rich. They had money, a samovar, and drank tea. Our Major knew all about it, and hated the two Lomofs, sparing them no vexation. The victims of his hate explained it by a desire to have them grease his palm well, but they could not, or would not, bring themselves to do it. If Uncle Lomof had struck his awl one hair's breadth further in Gavrilka's breast he would certainly have killed him; as it was, the wound did not much signify. The affair was reported to the Major. I think I see him now as he came up out of breath, but with visible satisfaction. He addressed Gavrilka in an affable, fatherly way: "Tell me, lad, can you walk to the hospital or must they carry you there? No, I think it will be better to have a horse; let them put a horse to this moment!" he cried out to the sub-officer with a gasp. "But I don't feel it at all, your worship; he's only given me a bit of a prick, your worship." "You don't know, my dear fellow, you don't know; you'll see. A nasty place he's struck you in. All depends upon the place. He has given it you just below the heart, the scoundrel. Wait, wait!" he howled to Lomof. "I've got you tight; take him to the guard-house." He kept his promise. Lomof was tried, and, though the wound was slight, there was plainly malice aforethought; his sentence of hard labour was extended for several years, and they gave him a thousand strokes with the rod. The Major was delighted. The Inspector arrived at last. The day after he reached the town, he came to the convict establishment to make his inspection. It was a regular fête-day. For some days everything had been brilliantly clean, washed with great precision. The convicts were all just shaven, their linen quite white and without a stain. (According to the regulations, they wore in summer waistcoats and pantaloons of canvas. Every one had a round black piece sown in at the back, eight centimetres in diameter.) For a whole hour the prisoners had been drilled as to what they should answer, the very words to be used, particularly if the high functionary should take any notice of them. There had been even regular rehearsals. The Major seemed to have lost his head. An hour before the coming in of the Inspector, all the convicts were at their posts, as stiff as statues, with their little fingers on the seams of their pantaloons. At last, just about one o'clock the Inspector made his entry. He was a General, with a most self-sufficing bearing, so much so, that the mere sight of it must have sent a tremor into the hearts of all the officials of West Siberia. He came in with a stern and majestic air, followed by a crowd of Generals and Colonels doing service in our town. There was a civilian, too, of high stature and regular features, in frock-coat and shoes. This personage bore himself very independently and airily, and the General addressed him every moment with exquisite politeness. This civilian also had come from Petersburg. All the convicts were terribly curious as to who he could be, such an important General showing him such deference? We learned who he was and what his office later, but he was a good deal talked about before we knew. Our Major, all spick and span, with orange-coloured collar, made no too favourable impression upon the General; the blood-shot eyes and fiery rubicund complexion plainly told their own story. Out of respect for his superior he had taken off his spectacles, and stood some way off, as straight as a dart, in feverish expectation that something would be asked of him, that he might run and carry out His Excellency's wishes; but no particular need of his services seemed to be felt. The General went all through the barracks without saying a word, threw a glance into the kitchen, where he tasted the sour cabbage soup. They pointed me out to him, telling him that I was an ex-nobleman, who had done this, that, and the other. "Ah!" answered the General. "And how does he conduct himself?" "Satisfactorily for the time being, your Excellency, satisfactorily." The General nodded, and left the jail in a couple of minutes more. The convicts were dazzled and disappointed, and did not know what to be at. As to laying complaints against the Major, that was quite over, could not be thought of. He had, no doubt, been quite well assured as to this beforehand. CHAPTER VI. THE ANIMALS AT THE CONVICT ESTABLISHMENT Gniedko, a bay horse, was bought a little while afterwards, and the event furnished a much more agreeable and interesting diversion to the convicts than the visit of the high personage I have been talking about. We required a horse at the jail for carrying water, refuse matter, etc. He was given to a convict to take care of and use; this man drove him, under escort, of course. Our horse had plenty to do morning and night; it was a worthy sort of beast, but a good deal worn, and had been in service for a long time already. One fine morning, the eve of St. Peter's Day, Gniedko, our bay, who was dragging a barrel of water, fell all of a heap, and gave up the ghost in a few minutes. He was much regretted, so all the convicts gathered round him to discuss his death. Those who had served in the cavalry, the Tsigans, the veterinary fellows, and others, showed a profound knowledge of horses in general and fiercely argued the question; but all that did not bring our bay horse to life again; there he was stretched out and dead, with his belly all swollen. Every one thought it incumbent on him to feel about the poor thing with his hands; finally the Major was informed of what Providence had done in the horse's case, and it was decided that another should be bought at once. St. Peter's Day, quite early after mass, all the convicts being together, horses that were on sale were brought in. It was left to the prisoners to choose an animal, for there were some thorough experts among them, and it would have been difficult to take in 250 men, with whom horse-dealing had been a speciality. Tsigans, Lesghians, professional horse-dealers, townsmen, came in to deal. The convicts were exceedingly eager about the matter as each fresh horse was brought up, and were as amused as children about it all. It seemed to tickle their fancy very much, that they had to buy a horse like free men, just as if it was for themselves and the money was to come out of their own pockets. Three horses were brought and taken away before purchase; the fourth was settled on. The horse-dealers seemed astonished and a little awed at the soldiers of the escort who watched the business. Two hundred men, clean shaven, branded as they were, with chains on their feet, were well calculated to inspire respect, all the more as they were in their own place, at home so to speak, in their own convict's den, where nobody was ever allowed to come. Our fellows seemed to be up to no end of tricks for finding out the real value of a horse brought up; they carefully examined it, handled it with the most serious demeanour, went on as if the welfare of the establishment was bound up with the purchase of this beast. The Circassians took the liberty of jumping upon his back: their eyes shone wildly, they chatted rapidly in their incomprehensible dialect, showed their white teeth, dilating the nostrils of their hooked copper-coloured noses. There were some Russians who paid the most lively attention to their discussion, and seemed ready to jump down their throats; they did not understand a word, but it was plain they did what they could to gather from the expression of the eyes of the fellows whether the horse was good or not. But what could it matter to a convict, especially to some of them, who were creatures altogether down and done for, who never ventured to utter a single word to the others? What _could_ it matter to such as these, whether one horse or another was bought? Yet it seemed as if it did. The Circassians appeared to be most relied on for their opinion, and besides these a foremost place in the discussion was given to the Tsigans, and those who had formerly been horse-dealers. There was a regular sort of duel between two convicts--the Tsigan Koulikoff, who had been a horse-dealer and stealer, and another who had been a professional veterinary, a tricky Siberian peasant, who had been at the establishment and at hard labour for some time, and who had succeeded in getting all Koulikoff's practice in the town. I ought to mention that the veterinary practitioners at the prison, though without diploma, were very much sought after, and that not only the townspeople and tradespeople, but high officials in the city, took their advice when their horses fell ill, rather than that of several regularly diplomatised veterinaries who were at the place. Till Jolkin came, the Siberian peasant Koulikoff had had plenty of clients from whom he had had fees in good hard cash. He was looked on as quite at the head of his business. He was a Tsigan all over in his doings, liar and cheat, and not at all the master of his art he boasted of being. The income he made had raised him to be a sort of aristocrat among our convicts; he was listened to and obeyed, but he spoke little, and expressed an opinion only in great emergencies. He blew his own trumpet loudly, but he really was a fellow of great energy; he was of ripe age, and of quite marked intelligence. When he spoke to us of the nobility, he did so with exquisite politeness and perfect dignity. I am sure that if he had been suitably dressed, and introduced into a club at the capital with the title of Count, he would have lived up to it; played whist, talked to admiration like a man used to command, and one who knew when to hold his tongue. I am sure that the whole evening would have passed without any one guessing that the "Count" was nothing but a vagabond. He had very probably had a very large and varied experience in life; as to his past, it was quite unknown to us. They kept him among the convicts who formed a special section reserved from the others. But no sooner had Jolkin come--he was a simple peasant, one of the "old believers," but just as tricky as it was possible for a moujik to be--the veterinary glory of Koulikoff paled sensibly. In less than two months the Siberian had got from him all his town practice, for he cured in a very short time horses Koulikoff had declared incurable, and which had been given up by the regular veterinaries. This peasant had been condemned and sent to hard labour for coining. It is an odd thing he should ever have been tempted to go into that line of business. He told us all about it himself, and joked about their wanting three coins of genuine gold to make one false. Koulikoff was not a little put out at this peasant's success, while his own glory so rapidly declined. There was he who had had a mistress in the suburbs, who used to wear a plush jacket and top-boots, and here he was now obliged to turn tavern-keeper; so everybody looked out for a regular row when the new horse was bought. The thing was very interesting, each of them had his partisans; the more eager among them got to angry words about it on the spot. The cunning face of Jolkin was all wrinkled into a sarcastic smile; but it turned out quite differently from what was expected. Koulikoff had not the least desire for argument or dispute, he managed cunningly without that. At first he gave way on every point, and listened deferentially to his rival's criticisms, then he caught him up sharply on some remark or other, and pointed out to him modestly but firmly that he was all wrong. In a word, Jolkin was utterly discomfited in a surprisingly clever way, so Koulikoff's side was quite well pleased. "I say, boys, it's no use talking; you can't trip _him_ up. He knows what he is about," said some. "Jolkin knows more about the matter than he does," said others; not offensively, however. Both sides were ready to make concessions. "Then, he's got a lighter hand, besides having more in his head. I tell you that when it comes to stock, horses, or anything else, Koulikoff needn't duck under to anybody." "Nor need Jolkin, I tell you." "There's nobody like Koulikoff." The new horse was selected and bought. It was a capital gelding--young, vigorous, and handsome; an irreproachable beast altogether. The bargaining began. The owner asked thirty roubles; the convicts wouldn't give more than twenty-five. The higgling went on long and hotly. At length the convicts began laughing. "Does the money come out of your own purse?" said some. "What's the good of all this?" "Do you want to save for the Government cashbox?" cried others. "But it's money that belongs to us all, pals," said one. "Us all! It's plain enough that you needn't trouble to grow idiots, they'll come up of themselves without it." At last the business was settled at twenty-eight roubles. The Major was informed, the purchase sanctioned. Bread and salt were brought at once, and the new boarder led in triumph into the jail. There was not one of the convicts, I think, that did not pat his neck or caress his head. The day we got him he was at once put to fetching water. All the convicts gazed on him curiously as he pulled at his barrel. Our waterman, the convict Roman, kept his eyes on the beast with a stupid sort of satisfaction. He was formerly a peasant, about fifty years of age, serious and silent, like all the Russian coachmen, whose behaviour would really seem to acquire some extra gravity by reason of their being always with horses. Roman was a quiet creature, affable all round, said little, took snuff from a box. He had taken care of the horses at the jail for some time before that. The one just bought was the third given into his charge since he came to the place. The coachman's office fell, as a matter of course, to Roman; nobody would have dreamed of contesting his right to it. When the bay horse dropped and died, nobody dreamed of accusing Roman of imprudence, not even the Major. It was the will of God, that was all; as to Roman, he knew his business. That bay horse had become the pet of the jail at once. The convicts were not particularly tender fellows; but they could not help coming to pet him often. Sometimes when Roman, returning from the river, shut the great gate which the sub-officer had opened, Gniedko would stand quite still waiting for his driver, and turning to him as for orders. "Get along, you know the way," Roman would cry to him. Then Gniedko would go off peaceably to the kitchen and stop there, and the cooks and other servants of the place would fill their buckets with water, which Gniedko seemed to know all about. "Gniedko, you're a trump! He's brought his water-barrel himself. He's a delight to see!" they would cry to him. "That's true; he's only a beast, but he knows all that's said to him." "No end of a horse is our Gniedko!" Then the horse shook his head and snorted, just as if he really understood all about his being praised; then some one would bring him bread and salt; and when he had finished with them he would shake his head again, as if to say, "I know you; I know you. I'm a good horse, and you're a good fellow." I was quite fond of regaling Gniedko with bread. It was quite a pleasure to me to look at his nice mouth, and to feel his warm, moist lips licking up the crumbs from the palm of my hand. Our convicts were fond of live things, and if they had been allowed would have filled the barracks with birds and domestic animals. What could possibly have been better than attending to such creatures for raising and softening the wild temper of the prisoners? But it was not permitted; it was not in the regulations; and, truth to say, there was no room there for many creatures. However, in my time some animals had established themselves in the jail. Besides Gniedko, we had some dogs, geese, a he-goat--Vaska--and an eagle, which remained only a short time. I think I have said before that _our_ dog was called Bull, and that he and I had struck up a friendship; but as the lower orders regard dogs as impure animals undeserving of attention, nobody minded him. He lived in the jail itself; slept in the court-yard; ate the leavings of the kitchen, and had no hold whatever on the sympathy of the convicts; all of whom he knew, however, and regarded as masters and owners. When the men assigned to work came back to the jail, at the cry of "Corporal," he used to run to the great gate and gaily welcome the gang, wagging his tail and looking into every man's eyes, as though he expected a caress. But for several years his little ways were as useless as they were engaging. Nobody but myself did caress him; so I was the one he preferred to all others. Somehow--I don't know in what way--we got another dog. Snow he was called. As to the third, Koultiapka, I brought him myself to the place when he was but a pup. Our Snow was a strange creature. A telega had gone over him and driven in his spine, so that it made a curve inside him. When you saw him running at a distance, he looked like twin-dogs born with a ligament. He was very mangy, too, with bleary eyes, and his tail was hairless, and always hanging between his legs. Victim of ill-fate as he was, he seemed to have made up his mind to be always as impassive as possible; so he never barked at anybody, for he seemed to be afraid of getting into some fresh trouble. He was nearly always lurking at the back of the buildings; and if anybody came near he rolled on his back at once, as though he meant to say, "Do what you like with me; I've not the least idea of resisting you." And every convict, when the dog upset himself like that, would give him a passing obligatory kick, with "Ouh! the dirty brute!" But Snow dared not so much as give a groan; and if he was too much hurt, would only utter a little, dull, strangled yelp. He threw himself down just the same way before Bull or any other dog when he came to try his luck at the kitchen; and he would stretch himself out flat if a mastiff or any other big dog came barking at him. Dogs like submission and humility in other dogs; so the angry brute quieted down at once, and stopped short reflectively before the poor, humble beast, and then sniffed him curiously all over. I wonder what poor Snow, trembling with fright, used to think at such moments. "Is this brigand of a fellow going to bite me?"--no doubt something like that. When he had sniffed enough at him, the big brute left him at once, having probably discovered nothing in particular. Snow used then to jump to his feet, and join a lot of four-footed fellows like him who were running down some yutchka or other. Snow knew quite well that no yutchka would ever condescend to the like of him, that she was too proud for that, but it was some consolation to him in his troubles to limp after her. As to decent behaviour, he had but a very vague notion of any such thing. Being totally without any hope in his future, his highest aim was to get a bellyful of victuals, and he was cynical enough in showing that it was so. Once I tried to caress him. This was such an unexpected and new thing to him that he plumped down on the ground quite helplessly, and quivered and whined in his delight. As I was really sorry for him I used to caress him often, so as soon as he caught sight of me he began to whine in a plaintive, tearful way. He came to his end at the back of the jail, in the ditch; some dogs tore him to pieces. Koultiapka was quite a different style of dog. I don't know why I brought him in from one of the workshops, where he was just born; but it gave me pleasure to feed him, and see him grow big. Bull took Koultiapka under his protection, and slept with him. When the young dog began to grow up, Bull was remarkably complaisant with him. He allowed the pup to bite his ears, and pull his skin with his teeth; he played with him as mature dogs are in the habit of doing with the youngsters. It was a strange thing, but Koultiapka never grew in height at all, only in length and breadth. His hide was fluffy and mouse-coloured; one of his ears hung down, while the other was always cocked up. He was, like all young dogs, ardent and enthusiastic, yelping with pleasure when he saw his master, and jumping up to lick his face precisely as if he said: "As long as he sees how delighted I am, I don't care; let etiquette go to the devil!" Wherever I was, at my call, "Koultiapka," out he came from some corner, dashing towards me with noisy satisfaction, making a ball of himself, and rolling over and over. I was exceedingly fond of the little wretch, and I used to fancy that destiny had reserved for him nothing but joy and pleasure in this world of ours; but one fine day the convict Neustroief, who made women's shoes and prepared skins, cast his eye on him; something had evidently struck him, for he called Koultiapka, felt his skin, and turned him over on the ground in a friendly way. The unsuspicious dog barked with pleasure, but next day he was nowhere to be found. I hunted for him for some time, but in vain; at last, after two weeks, all was explained. Koultiapka's natural cloak had been too much for Neustroief, who had flayed him to make up with the skin some boots of fur-trimmed velvet ordered by the young wife of some official. He showed them me when they were done, their inside lining was magnificent; all Koultiapka, poor fellow! A good many convicts worked at tanning, and often brought with them to the jail dogs with a nice skin, which soon were seen no more. They stole them or bought them. I remember one day I saw a couple of convicts behind the kitchens laying their heads together. One of them held in a leash a very fine black dog of particularly good breed. A scamp of a footman had stolen it from his master, and sold it to our shoemakers for thirty kopecks. They were going to hang it; that was their way of disposing of them; then they took the skin off, and threw the body into a ditch used for _ejecta_, which was in the most distant corner of the court, and which stank most horribly during the summer heats, for it was rarely seen to. I think the poor beast understood the fate in store for him. It looked at us one after another in a distressed, scrutinising way; at intervals it gave a timid little wag with its bushy tail between its legs, as though trying to reach our hearts by showing us every confidence. I hastened away from the convicts, who finished their vile work without hindrance. As to the geese of the establishment, they had established themselves there quite fortuitously. Who took care of them? To whom did they belong? I really don't know; but they were a huge delight to our convicts, and acquired a certain fame throughout the town. They had been hatched in the convict establishment somewhere, and their head-quarters was the kitchen, whence they emerged in gangs of their own, when the gangs of convicts went out to their work. But as soon as the drum beat and the prisoners massed themselves at the great gate, out ran the geese after them, cackling and flapping their wings, then they jumped one after the other over the elevated threshold of the gateway; while the convicts were at their work, the geese pecked about at a little distance from them. As soon as they had done and set out for the jail, again the geese joined the procession, and people who passed by would cry out, "I say, there are the prisoners with their friends, the geese!" "How did you teach them to follow you?" some one would ask. "Here's some money for your geese," another said, putting his hand in his pocket. In spite of their devotion to the convicts they had their necks twisted to make a feast at the end of the Lent of some year, I forget which. Nobody would ever have made up his mind to kill our goat Vaska, unless something particular had happened; as it did. I don't know how it got into our prison, or who had brought it. It was a white kid, and very pretty. After some days it had won all hearts, it was diverting and winning. As some excuse was needed for keeping it in the jail, it was given out that it was quite necessary to have a goat in the stables; but he didn't live there, but in the kitchen principally; and after a while he roamed about all over the place. The creature was full of grace and as playful as could be, jumped on the tables, wrestled with the convicts, came when it was called, and was always full of spirits and fun. One evening, the Lesghian Babaï, who was seated on the stone steps at the doors of the barracks among a crowd of other convicts, took it into his head to have a wrestling bout with Vaska, whose horns were pretty long. They butted their foreheads against one another--that was the way the convicts amused themselves with him--when all of a sudden Vaska jumped on the highest step, lifted himself up on his hind legs, drew his fore-feet to him and managed to strike the Lesghian on the back of the neck with all his might, and with such effect that Babaï went headlong down the steps to the great delight of all who were by as well as of Babaï himself. In a word, we all adored our Vaska. When he attained the age of puberty, a general and serious consultation was held, as the result of which, he was subjected to an operation which one of the prison veterinaries executed in a masterly manner. "Well," said the prisoners, "he won't have any goat-smell about him, that's one comfort." Vaska then began to lay on fat in the most surprising way. I must say that we fed him quite unconscionably. He became a most beautiful fellow, with magnificent horns, corpulent beyond anything. Sometimes as he walked, he rolled over on the ground heavily out of sheer fatness. He went with us out to work too, which was very diverting to the convicts and all others who saw; and everybody got to know Vaska, the jailbird. When they worked at the river bank, the prisoners used to cut willow branches and other foliage, and gather flowers in the ditches to ornament Vaska. They used to twine the branches and flowers round his horns and decorate his body with garlands. Vaska then came back at the head of the gang in a splendid state of ornamentation, and we all came after in high pride at seeing him such a beauty. This love for our goat went so far that prisoners raised the question, not a very wise one, whether Vaska ought not to have his horns gilded. It was a vain idea; nothing came of it. I asked Akim Akimitch, the best gilder in the jail, whether you really could gild a goat's horns. He examined Vaska's quite closely, thought a bit, and then said that it could be done, but that it would not last, and would be quite useless. So nothing came of it. Vaska would have lived for many years more, and, no doubt, have died of asthma at last, if, one day as he returned from work at the head of the convicts, his path had not been crossed by the Major, who was seated in his carriage. Vaska was in particularly gorgeous array. "Halt!" yelled the Major. "Whose goat is that?" They told him. "What! a goat in the prison! and that without my leave? Sub-officer!" The sub-officer received orders to kill the goat without a moment's delay; flay him, and sell his skin; and put the proceeds to the prisoners' account. As to the meat, he ordered it to be cooked with the convicts' cabbage soup. The occurrence was much discussed; the goat was much mourned; but nobody dared to disobey the Major. Vaska was put to death close to the ditch I spoke of just now. One of the convicts bought the carcase, paying a rouble and fifty kopecks. With this money white bread was bought for everybody. The man who had bought the goat sold him at retail in a roasted state. The meat was delicious. We had also, during some time, in our prison a steppe eagle; a quite small species. A convict brought it in, wounded, half-dead. Everybody came flocking around it; it could not fly, its right wing being quite powerless; one of its legs was badly hurt. It gazed on the curious crowd wrathfully, and opened its crooked beak, as if prepared to sell its life dearly. When we had looked at him long enough, and the crowd dispersed, the lamed bird went off, hopping on one paw and flapping his wing, and hid himself in the most distant part of the place he could find; there he huddled himself in a corner against the palings. During the three months that he remained in our court-yard he never came out of his corner. At first we went to look at him pretty often, and sometimes they set Bull at him, who threw himself forward with fury, but was frightened to go too near, which mightily amused the convicts. "A wild chap that! He won't stand any nonsense!" But Bull after a while got over his fright, and began to worry him. When he was roused to it, the dog would catch hold of the bird's bad wing, and the creature defended itself with beak and claws, and then got up closer into his corner with a proud, savage sort of demeanour, like a wounded king, fixing his eyes steadily on the fellows looking at his misery. They tired of the sport after a while, and the eagle seemed quite forgotten; but there was some one who, every day, put close to him a bit of fresh meat and a vessel with some water. At first, and for several days, the eagle would eat nothing; at last, he made up his mind to take what was left for him, but he never could be got to take anything from the hand, or in public. Sometimes I succeeded in watching his proceedings at some distance. When he saw nobody, and thought he was alone, he ventured upon leaving his corner and limping along the palisade for a dozen steps or so, then went back; and so forwards and backwards, precisely as if he were taking exercise for his health under medical orders. As soon as ever he caught sight of me he made for his corner as quickly as he possibly could, limping and hopping. Then he threw his head back, opened his mouth, ruffled himself, and seemed to make ready for fight. In vain I tried to caress him. He bit and struggled as soon as he was touched. Not once did he take the meat I offered him, and all the time I remained by him he kept his wicked, piercing eye upon me. Lonely and revengeful he waited for death, defying, refusing to be reconciled with everything and everybody. At last the convicts remembered him, after two months of complete forgetfulness, and then they showed a sympathy I did not expect of them. It was unanimously agreed to carry him out. "Let him die, but let him die in freedom," said the prisoners. "Sure enough, a free and independent bird like that will never get used to the prison," added others. "He's not like us," said some one. "Oh well, he's a bird, and we're human beings." "The eagle, pals, is the king of the woods," began Skouratof; but that day nobody paid any attention to him. One afternoon, when the drum beat for beginning work, they took the eagle, tied his beak (for he struck a desperate attitude), and took him out of the prison on to the ramparts. The twelve convicts of the gang were extremely anxious to know where he would go to. It was a strange thing: they all seemed as happy as though they had themselves got their freedom. "Oh, the wretched brute. One wants to do him a kindness, and he tears your hand for you by way of thanks," said the man who held him, looking almost lovingly at the spiteful bird. "Let him fly off, Mikitka!" "It doesn't suit _him_ being a prisoner; give him his freedom, his jolly freedom." They threw him from the ramparts on to the steppe. It was just at the end of autumn, a gray, cold day. The wind whistled on the bare steppe and went groaning through the yellow dried-up grass. The eagle made off directly, flapping his wounded wing, as if in a hurry to quit us and get himself a shelter from our piercing eyes. The convicts watched him intently as he went along with his head just above the grass. "Do you see him, hey?" said one very pensively. "He doesn't look round," said another; "he hasn't looked behind once." "Did you happen to fancy he'd come back to thank us?" said a third. "Sure enough, he's free; he feels it. It's _freedom_!" "Yes, freedom." "You won't see him any more, pals." "What are you about sticking there? March, march!" cried the escort, and all went slowly to their work. CHAPTER VII. GRIEVANCES At the outset of this chapter, the editor of the "Recollections" of the late Alexander Petrovitch Goriantchikoff thinks it his duty to communicate what follows to his readers. "In the first chapter of the 'Recollections of the House of the Dead,' something was said about a parricide, of noble birth, who was put forward as an instance of the insensibility with which the convicts speak of the crimes they have committed. It was also stated that he refused altogether to confess to the authorities and the court; but that, thanks to the statements of persons who knew all the details of his case and history, his guilt was put beyond all doubt. These persons had informed the author of the 'Recollections,' that the criminal had been of dissolute life and overwhelmed with debts, and that he had murdered his father to come into the property. Besides, the whole town where this parricide was imprisoned told his story in precisely the same way, a fact of which the editor of these 'Recollections' has fully satisfied himself. It was further stated that this murderer, even when in the jail, was of quite a joyous and cheerful frame of mind, a sort of inconsiderate giddy-pated person, although intelligent, and that the author of the 'Recollections' had never observed any particular signs of cruelty about him, to which he added, 'So I, for my part, never could bring myself to believe him guilty.' "Some time ago the editor of the 'Recollections of the House of the Dead,' had intelligence from Siberia of the discovery of the innocence of this 'parricide,' and that he had undergone ten years of the imprisonment with hard labour for nothing; this was recognised and avowed by the authorities. The real criminals had been discovered and had confessed, and the unfortunate man in question set at liberty. All this stands upon unimpeachable and authoritative grounds." To say more would be useless. The tragical facts speak too clearly for themselves. All words are weak in such a case, where a life has been ruined by such an accusation. Such mistakes as these are among the dreadful possibilities of life, and such possibilities impart a keener and more vivid interest to the "Recollections of the House of the Dead," which dreadful place we see may contain innocent as well as guilty men. To continue. I have said that I became at last, in some sense, accustomed, if not reconciled, to the conditions of convict life; but it was a long and dreadful time before I was. It took me nearly a year to get used to the prison, and I shall always regard this year as the most dreadful of my life, it is graven deep in my memory, down to the very least details. I think that I could minutely recall the events and feelings of each successive hour in it. I have said that the other prisoners, too, found it as difficult as I did to get used to the life they had to lead. During the whole of this first year, I used to ask myself whether they were really as calm as they seemed to be. Questions of this kind pressed themselves upon me. As I have mentioned before, all the convicts felt themselves in an alien element to which they could not reconcile themselves. The sense of home was an impossibility; they felt as if they were staying, as a stage upon a journey, in an evil sort of inn. These men, exiles for and from life, seemed either in a perpetual smouldering agitation, or else in deep depression; but there was not one who had not his ordinary ideas of one thing or another. This restlessness, which, if it did not come to the surface, was still unmistakable; those vague hopes of the poor creatures which existed in spite of themselves, hopes so ill-founded that they were more like the promptings of incipient insanity than aught else; all this stamped the place with a character, an originality, peculiarly its own. One could not but feel when one went there that there was nothing like it anywhere else in the whole world. There everybody went about in a sort of waking dream; nor was there anything to relieve or qualify the impressions the place made on the system of every man; so that all seemed to suffer from a sort of hyperæsthetic neurosis, and this dreaming of impossibilities gave to the majority of the convicts a sombre and morose aspect, for which the word morbid is not strong enough. Nearly all were taciturn and irascible, preferring to keep to themselves the hopes they secretly and vainly cherished. The result was, that anything like ingenuousness or frank statement was the object of general contempt. Precisely because these wild hopings were impossible, and, despite themselves, were felt to be so, confessed to their more lucid selves to be so, they kept them jealously concealed in the most secret recesses of their souls; while to renounce them was beyond their powers of self-control. It may be they were ashamed of their imagination. God knows. The Russian character is, in its normal conditions, so positive and sober in its way of looking at life, so pitiless in criticism of its own weaknesses. Perhaps it was this inward misery of self-dissatisfaction which was at the bottom of the impatience and intolerance the convicts showed among themselves, and of the cruel biting things they said to each other. If one of them, more naïve or impartial than the rest, put into words what every one of them had in his mind, painted his castles in the air, told his dreams of liberty, or plans of escape, they shut him up with brutal promptitude, and made the poor fellow's life a burden to him with their sarcasms and jests. And I think those did it most unscrupulously who had perhaps themselves gone furthest in cherishing futile hopes, and indulging in senseless expectations. I have said, more than once, that those among them who were marked by simplicity and candour were looked on rather as being stupid and idiotic; there was nothing but contempt for them. The convicts were so soured and, in the wrong sense, sensitive, that they positively hated anything like amiability or unselfishness. I should be disposed to classify them all broadly, as either good or bad men, morose or cheerful, putting by themselves, as a sort of separate creatures, the ingenious fellows who could not hold their tongues. But the sour-tempered were in far the greatest majority; some of these were talkative, but these were usually of slanderous and envious disposition, always poking their noses into other people's business, though they took good care not to let anybody have a glimpse of the secret thoughts of their _own_ souls; that would have been against the fashions and conventions of this strange, little world. As to the fellows who were really good--very few indeed were they--these were always very quiet and peaceable, and buried their hopes, if they had any, in strict silence; but more of real faith went with their hopes than was the case with the gloomy-minded among the convicts. Stay, there was one category further among our convicts, which ought not to be forgotten; the men who had lost all hope, who were despairing and desperate, like the old man of Starodoub; but these were very few indeed. The old man of Starodoub! This was a very subdued, quiet, old man; but there were some indications of what went on in him, which he could not help giving, and from which, I could not help seeing, that his inward life was one of intolerable horror; still he had _something_ to fall back upon for help and consolation--prayer, and the notion that he was a martyr. The convict who was always reading the Bible, of whom I spoke earlier, the one that went mad and threw himself, brick in hand, upon the Major, was also probably one of those whom hope had altogether abandoned; and, as it is perfectly impossible to go on living without hope of some sort, he threw away his life as a sort of voluntary sacrifice. He declared that he attacked the Major though he had no grievance in particular; all he wanted was to have some torments inflicted on himself. Now, what sort of psychological operation had been going on in _that_ man's soul? No man lives, can live, without having _some_ object in view, and making efforts to attain that object. But when object there is none, and hope is entirely fled, anguish often turns a man into a monster. The object _we_ all had in view was liberty, and getting out of our place of confinement and hard labour. So I try to place our convicts in separately-defined classes and categories; but it cannot well be done. Reality is a thing of infinite diversity, and defies the most ingenious deductions and definitions of abstract thought, nay, abhors the clear and precise classifications we so delight in. Reality tends to infinite subdivision of things, and truth is a matter of infinite shadings and differentiations. Every one of us who were there had his own peculiar, interior, strictly personal life, which lay altogether outside of the world of regulations and our official superintendence. But, as I have said before, I could not penetrate the depths of this interior life in the early part of my prison career, for everything that met my eyes, or challenged my attention in any way, filled me with a sadness for which there are no words. Sometimes I felt nothing short of hatred for poor creatures whose martyrdom was at least as great as mine. In those first days I envied them, because they were among persons of their own sort, and understood one another; so I thought, but the truth was that their enforced companionship, the comradeship where the word of command went with the whip or the rod, was as much an object of aversion to them as it was to myself, and every one of them tried to keep himself as much to himself as possible. This envious hatred of them, which came to me in moments of irritation, was not without its reasonable cause, for those who tell you so confidently that a cultivated man of the higher class does not suffer as a mere peasant does, are utterly in the wrong. That is a thing I have often heard said, and read too. In the abstract, the notion seems correct, and it is founded in generous sentiment, for all convicts are human beings alike; but in reality it is different. In the real living facts of the problem there come in a quantity of practical complications, and only experience can pronounce upon these: experience which I have had. I do not mean to lay it down peremptorily, that the nobleman and the man of culture feel more acutely, sensitively, deeply, because of their more highly developed conditions of being. On the other hand, it is impossible to bring all souls to one common level or standard; neither the grade of education, nor any other thing, furnishes a standard according to which punishment can be meted out. It is a great satisfaction to me to be able to say that among these dreadful sufferers, in a state of things so barbarous and abject, I found abundant proof that the elements of moral development were not wanting. In our convict establishment there were men whom I was familiar with for several years, and whom I looked upon as wild beasts and abhorred as such; well, all of a sudden, when I least expected it, these very men would exhibit such an abundance of feeling of the best kind, so keen a comprehension of the sufferings of others, seen in the light of the consciousness of their own, that one might almost fancy scales had fallen from their eyes. So sudden was it as to cause stupefaction; one could scarcely believe one's eyes or ears. Sometimes it was just the other way: educated men, well brought up, would occasionally display a savage, cynical brutality which nearly turned one's stomach, conduct of a kind impossible to excuse or justify, however much you might be charitably inclined to do so. I lay no stress on the entire change in the habits of life, the food, etc., as to which there come in points where the man of the higher classes suffers so much more keenly than the peasant or working man, who often goes hungry when free, while he always has his stomach-full in prison. We will leave all that out. Let it be admitted that for a man with some force of character these external things are a trifle in comparison with privations of a quite different kind; for all that, such total change of material conditions and habits is neither an easy nor a slight thing. But in the convict's _status_ there are elements of horror before which all other horrors pale, even the mud and filth everywhere about, the scantiness and uncleanness of the food, the irons on your limbs, the suffocating sense of being always held tight, as in a vice. The capital, the most important point of all is, that after a couple of hours or so, every new-comer to a convict establishment, who is of the lower class, shakes down into equality with the rest; he is _at home_ among them, he has his "freedom" of this city of the enslaved, this community of convicted scoundrels, in which one man is superficially like every other man; he understands and is understood, he is looked upon by everybody as _one of themselves_. Now all this is _not_ so in the case of the nobleman. However kindly, just-minded, intelligent a man of the higher class may be, every soul there will hate and despise him during long years; they will neither understand nor believe in him, not one whit. He will be neither friend nor comrade in their eyes; if he can get them to stop insulting him it will be as much as he can do, but he will be alien to them from the first to the last, he will have to feel the grief of a ceaseless, hopeless, causeless solitude and sequestration. Sometimes it is the case that sheer ill-will on the part of the prisoners has nothing to do with bringing about this state of things, it simply cannot be helped; the nobleman is not one of the gang, and there's the whole secret. There is nothing more horrible than to live out of the social sphere to which you properly belong. The peasant, transported from Taganrog to Petropavlosk, finds there Russian peasants like himself; between him and them there can be mutual intelligence; in an hour they will be friends, and live comfortably together in the same izba or the same barrack. With the nobleman it is wholly otherwise; a bottomless abyss separates him from the lower classes, _how_ deep and impassable is only seen when a nobleman forfeits his position and becomes as one of the populace himself. You may be your whole life in daily relations with the peasant, forty years you may do business with him regularly as the day comes--let us suppose it so, at all events--by the calls of official position or administrative duty; you may be his benefactor, all but a father to him--well, you'll never know what is at the bottom of the man's mind or heart. You may think you know something about him, but it is all optical illusion, nothing more. My readers will charge me with exaggeration, but I am convinced I am quite right. I don't go on theory or book-reading in this; in my case the realities of life have given me only too ample time and opportunity for reviewing and correcting my theoretic convictions, which, as to this, are now fixed. Perhaps everybody will some day learn how well founded I am in what I say about this. All this was theory when I first went into the convict establishment, but events, and things observed, soon came to confirm me in such views, and what I experienced so affected my system as to undermine its health. During the first summer I wandered about the place, so far as I was free to move, a solitary, friendless man. My moral situation was such that I could not distinguish those among the convicts who, in the sequel, managed to care for me a little in spite of the distance that always remained between us. There _were_ there men of my own position, ex-nobles like myself, but their companionship was repugnant to me. Here is one of the incidents which obliged me to see at the outset, how solitary a creature I was, and all the strangeness of my position at the place. One day in August, a fine warm day, about one o'clock in the afternoon, a time when, as a rule, everybody took a nap before resuming work, the convicts rose as one man and massed themselves in the court-yard. I had not the slightest idea, up to that moment, that anything was going on. So deeply had I been sunk in my own thoughts, that I saw nearly nothing of what was happening about me of any kind. But it seems that the convicts had been in a smouldering sort of unusual agitation for three days. Perhaps it had begun sooner; so I thought later when I remembered stray remarks, bits of talk that had come to my ears, the palpable increase of ill-humour among the prisoners, their unusual irritability for some time past. I had attributed it all to the trying summer work, the insufferably long days; to their dreamings about the woods, and freedom, which the season brought up; to the nights too short for rest. It may be that all these things came together to form a mass of discontent, that only wanted a tolerably good reason for exploding; it was found in the food. For several days the convicts had not concealed their dissatisfaction with it in open talk in their barracks, and they showed it plainly when assembled for dinner or supper; one of the cooks had been changed, but, after a couple of days, the new comer was sent to the right-about, and the old one brought back. The restlessness and ill-humour were general; mischief was brewing. "Here are we slaving to death, and they give us nothing but filth to eat," grumbled one in the kitchen. "If you don't like it, why don't you order jellies and blanc-mange?" said another. "Sour cabbage soup, why, that's _good_. I delight in it; there's nothing more juicy," exclaimed a third. "Well, if they gave you nothing but beef, beef, beef, for ever and ever, would you like _that_?" "Yes, yes; they ought to give us meat," said a fourth; "one's almost killed at the workshops; and, by heaven! when one has got through with work there one's hungry, hungry; and you don't get anything to satisfy your hunger." "It's true, the victuals are simply damnable." "He fills his pockets, don't you fear!" "It isn't your business." "Whose business is it? My belly's my own. If we were all to make a row about it together, you'd soon see." "Yes." "Haven't we been beaten enough for complaining, dolt that you are?" "True enough! What's done in a hurry is never well done. And how would you set about making a raid over it, tell me that?" "I'll tell you, by God! If everybody will go, I'll go too, for I'm just dying of hunger. It's all very well for those who eat at a better table, apart, to keep quiet; but those who eat the regulation food----" "There's a fellow with eyes that do their work, bursting with envy _he_ is. Don't his eyes glisten when he sees something that doesn't belong to him?" "Well, pals, why don't we make up our minds? Have we gone through enough? They flay us, the brigands! Let's go at them." "What's the good? I tell you ye must chew what they give you, and stuff your mouth full of it. Look at the fellow, he wants people to chew his food for him. We're in prison, and have got to stand it." "Yes, that's it; we're in prison." "That's it always; the people die of hunger, and the Government fills its belly." "That's true. Our eight-eyes (_the Major_) has got finely fat over it; he's bought a pair of gray horses." "He don't like his glass at all, that fellow," said a convict ironically. "He had a bout at cards a little while ago with the vet; for two hours he played without a half-penny in his pocket. Fedka told me so." "That's why we get cabbage soup that's fit for nothing." "You're all idiots! It doesn't matter; _nothing_ matters." "I tell you if we all join in complaining we shall see what he has to say for himself. Let's make up our minds." "_Say_ for himself? You'll get his fist on your pate; that's just all." "I tell you they'll have him up, and try him." All the prisoners were in great agitation; the truth is, the food was execrable. The general anguish, suffering, and suspense seemed to be coming to a head. Convicts are, by disposition, or, as such, quarrelsome and rebellious; but a general revolt is rare, for they can never agree upon it; we all of us felt that since there was, as a rule, more violent talk than doing. This time, however, the agitation did not fall to the ground. The men gathered in groups in their barracks, talking things over in a violent way, and going over all the particulars of the Major's misdoings, and trying to get to the bottom of them. In all affairs of that sort there are ringleaders and firebrands. The ringleaders on such occasions are generally rather remarkable fellows, not only in convict establishments, but among all large organisations of workmen, military detachments, etc. They are always people of a peculiar type, enthusiastic men, who have a thirst for justice, very naïve, simple, and strong, convinced that their desires are fully capable of realisation; they have as much sense as other people; some are of high intelligence; but they are too full of warmth and zeal to measure their acts. When you come across people who really do know how to direct the masses, and get what they want, you find a quite different sort of popular leaders, and one excessively rare among us Russians. The more usual type of leader, the one I first alluded to, does certainly in some sense accomplish their object, so far as bringing about a rising is concerned; but it all ends in filling up the prisons and convict establishments. Thanks to their impetuosity they always come off second-best; but it is this impetuosity that gives them their influences over the masses; their ardent, honest indignation does its work, and draws in the more irresolute. Their blind confidence of success seduces even the most hardened sceptics, although this confidence is generally based on such uncertain, childish reasons that it is wonderful how people can put faith in them. The secret of their influence is that they put themselves at the head, and _go_ ahead, without flinching. They dash forward, heads down, often without the least knowledge worth the name of what they are about, and have nothing about them of the jesuitical practical faculty by dint of which a vile and worthless man often hits his mark and comes uppermost, and will sometimes come all white out of a tub of ink. They _must_ dash their skulls against stone walls. Under ordinary circumstances these people are bilious, irascible, intolerant, contemptuous, often very warm, which really after all is part of the secret of their strength. The deplorable thing is that they never go at what is the essential, the vital part of their task, they always go off at once into details instead of going straight to their mark, and this is their ruin. But they and the mob understand one another; that makes them formidable. I must say a few words about this word "grievance." Some of the convicts had been transported in connection with a "grievance;" these were the most excited among them, notably a certain Martinoff, who had formerly served in the Hussars, an eager, restless, and choleric, but a worthy and truthful, fellow. Another, Vassili Antonoff, could work himself up into anger coolly and collectedly; he had a generally impudent expression, and a sarcastic smile, but he, too, was honest, and a man of his word, and of no little education. I won't enumerate; there were plenty of them. Petroff went about in a hurried way from one group to another. He spoke few words, but he was quite as highly excited as any one there, for he was the first to spring out of the barrack when the others massed themselves in the court-yard. Our sergeant, who acted as sergeant-major, came up very soon in quite a fright. The convicts got into rank, and politely begged him to tell the Major that they wanted to speak with him and put him a few questions. Behind the sergeant came all the invalids, who ranked themselves in face of the convicts. What they asked the sergeant to do frightened the man out of his wits almost, but he dared not refuse to go and report to the Major, for if the convicts mutinied, God only knows what might happen. All the men set over us showed themselves great poltroons in handling the prisoners; then, even if nothing further worse happened, if the convicts thought better of it and dispersed, the sub-officer was still in duty bound to inform the authorities of what had been going on. Pale, and trembling with fright, he went headlong to the Major, without even an effort to bring the convicts to reason. He saw that they were not minded to put up with any of his talk, no doubt. Without the least idea of what was going on, I went into rank myself (it was only later that I heard the earlier details of the story). I thought that the muster-roll was to be called, but I did not see the soldiers who verify the lists, so I was surprised, and began to look about me a little. The men's faces were working with emotion, and some were ghostly pale. They were sternly silent, and seemed to be thinking of what they should say to the Major. I observed that many of the convicts seemed to wonder at seeing me among them, but they turned their glances away from me. No doubt they thought it strange that I should come into the ranks with them, and join in their remonstrances, and could not quite believe it. Then they turned round to me again in a questioning sort of way. "What are you doing here?" said Vassili Antonoff, in a loud, rude voice; he happened to be close to me, and a little way from the rest; the man had always hitherto been scrupulously polite to me. I looked at him in perplexity, trying to understand what he meant by it; I began to see that something extraordinary was up in our prison. "Yes, indeed, what are you about here? Go off into the barrack," said a young fellow, a soldier-convict, whom I did not know till then, and who was a good, quiet lad, "this is none of _your_ business." "Have we not fallen into rank," I answered, "aren't we going to be mustered?" "Why, _he's_ come, too," cried one of them. "Iron-nose,"[7] said another. "Fly-killer," added a third, with inexpressible contempt for me in his tone. This new nickname caused a general burst of laughter. "These fellows are in clover everywhere. We are in prison, with hard labour, I rather fancy; they get wheat-bread and sucking-pig, like great lords as they are. Don't you get your victuals by yourself? What are you doing here?" "Your place is not here," said Koulikoff to me brusquely, taking me by the hand and leading me out of the ranks. He was himself very pale; his dark eyes sparkled with fire, he had bitten his under lip till the blood came; he wasn't one of those who expected the Major without losing self-possession. I liked to look at Koulikoff when he was in trying circumstances like these; then he showed himself just what he was in his strong points and weak. He attitudinised, but he knew how to act, too. I think he would have gone to his death with a certain affected elegance. While everybody was insulting me in words and tones, his politeness was greater than ever; but he spoke in a firm and resolved tone which admitted of no reply. "We are here on business of our own, Alexander Petrovitch, and you've got to keep out of it. Go where you like and wait till it's over ... here, your people are in the kitchens, go there." "They're in hot quarters down there." I did in fact see our Poles at the open window of the kitchen, in company with a good many other convicts. I did not well know what to be at; but went there followed by laughter, insulting remarks, and that sort of muttered growling which is the prison substitute for the hissings and cat-calls of the world of freedom. "He doesn't like it at all! Chu, chu, chu! Seize him!" I had never been so bitterly insulted since I was in the place. It was a very painful moment, but just what was to be expected in the excessive excitement the men were labouring under. In the ante-room I met T--vski, a young nobleman of not much information, but of firm, generous character; the convicts excepted him from the hatred they felt for the convicts of noble birth; they were almost fond of him; every one of his gestures denoted the brave and energetic man. "What are you about, Goriantchikoff?" he cried to me; "come here, come here!" "But what is _it_ all about?" "They are going to make a formal complaint, don't you know it? It won't do them a bit of good; who'll pay any attention to convicts? They'll try to find out the ringleaders, and if we are among them they'll lay it all on us. Just remember what we have been transported for. They'll only get a whipping, but we shall be put regularly to trial. The Major detests us all, and will be only too happy to ruin us; all his sins will fall on our shoulders." "The convicts would tie us hands and feet and sell us directly," added M--tski, when we got into the kitchen. "They'll never have mercy on _us_," added T--vski. Besides the nobles there were in the kitchen about thirty other prisoners who did not want to join in the general complaints, some because they were afraid, others because of their conviction that the whole proceeding would prove quite useless. Akim Akimitch, who was a decided opponent of everything that savoured of complaint, or that could interfere with discipline and the usual routine, waited with great phlegm to see the end of the business, about which he did not care a jot. He was perfectly convinced that the authorities would put it all down immediately. Isaiah Fomitch's nose drooped visibly as he listened in a sort of frightened curiosity to what we said about the affair; he was much disturbed. With the Polish nobles were some inferior persons of the same nation, as well as some Russians, timid, dull, silent fellows, who had not dared to join the rest, and who waited in a melancholy way to see what the issue would be. There were also some morose, discontented convicts, who remained in the kitchen, not because they were afraid, but that they thought this half-revolt an absurdity which could not succeed; it seemed to me that these were not a little disturbed, and their faces were quite unsteady. They saw clearly that they were in the right, and that the issue of the movement would be what they had foretold, but they had a sort of feeling that they were traitors who had sold their comrades to the Major. Jolkin--the long-headed Siberian peasant sent to hard labour for coining, the man who got Koulikoff's town practice from him--was there also, as well as the old man of Starodoub. None of the cooks had left their post, perhaps because they looked upon themselves as belonging specially to the authorities of the place, whom it would be unbecoming, therefore, to join in opposing. "For all that," said I to M--tski, "except these fellows, all the convicts are in it," and no doubt I said it in a way that showed misgivings. "I wonder what in the world _we_ have to do with it?" growled B----. "We should have risked a good deal more than they had we gone with them; and why? _Je hais ces brigands._[8] Why, do you think that they'll bring themselves up to the scratch after all? I can't see what they want putting their heads in the lion's mouth, the fools." "It'll all come to nothing," said some one, an obstinate, sour-tempered old fellow. Almazoff, who was with us too, agreed heartily in this. "Some fifty of them will get a good beating, and that's all the good they'll all get out of it." "Here's the Major!" cried one; everybody ran to the windows. The Major had come up, spectacles and all, looking as wicked as might be, towering with passion, red as a turkey-cock. He came on without a word, and in a determined manner, right up to the line of the convicts. In conjunctures of this sort he showed uncommon pluck and presence of mind; but it ought not to be overlooked that he was nearly always half-seas over. Just then his greasy cap, with its yellow border, and his tarnished silver epaulettes, gave him a Mephistophelic look in my excited fancy. Behind him came the quartermaster, Diatloff, who was quite a personage in the establishment, for he was really at the bottom of all the authorities did. He was an exceedingly capable and cunning fellow, and wielded great influence with the Major. He was not by any means a bad sort of man, and the convicts were, in a general way, not ill-inclined towards him. Our sergeant followed him with three or four soldiers, no more; he had already had a tremendous wigging, and there was plenty more of the same to come, if he knew it. The convicts, who had remained uncovered, cap in hand, from the moment they sent for the Major, stiffened themselves, every man shifting his weight to the other leg; then they remained motionless, and waited for the first word, or the first shout rather, to come from him. They had not long to wait. Before he had got more than one word out, the Major began to shout at the top of his voice; he was beside himself with rage. We saw him from the windows running all along the line of convicts, dashing at them here and there with angry questions. As we were a pretty good distance off, we could not hear what he said or their replies. We only heard his shouts, or rather what seemed shouting, groaning, and grunting beautifully mingled. "Scoundrels! mutineers! to the cat with ye! Whips and sticks! The ringleaders? _You're_ one of the ringleaders!" throwing himself on one of them. We did not hear the answer; but a minute after we saw this convict leave the ranks and make for the guard-house. Another followed, then a third. "I'll have you up, every man of you. I'll---- Who's in the kitchen there?" he bawled, as he saw us at the open windows. "Here with all of you! Drive 'em all out, every man!" Diatloff, the quartermaster, came towards the kitchens. When we had told him that _we_ were not complaining of any grievance, he returned, and reported to the Major at once. "Ah, those fellows are not in it," said he, lowering his tone a bit, and much pleased. "Never mind, bring them along here." We left the kitchen. I could not help feeling humiliation; all of us went along with our heads down. "Ah, Prokofief! Jolkin too; and you, Almazof! Here, come here, all the lump of you!" cried the Major to us, with a gasp; but he was somewhat softened, his tone was even obliging. "M--tski, you're here too?... Take down the names. Diatloff, take down all the names, the grumblers in one list and the contented ones in another--all, without exception; you'll give me the list. I'll have you all before the Committee of Superintendence.... I'll ... brigands!" This word "_list_" told. "We've nothing to complain of!" cried one of the malcontents, in a half-strangled sort of voice. "Ah, you've nothing to complain of! _Who's_ that? Let all those who have nothing to complain of step out of the ranks." "All of us, all of us!" came from some others. "Ah, the food is all right, then? You've been put up to it. Ringleaders, mutineers, eh? So much the worse for them." "But, what do you mean by that?" came from a voice in the crowd. "Where is the fellow that said that?" roared the Major, throwing himself to where the voice came from. "It was you, Rastorgouïef, you; to the guard-house with you." Rastorgouïef, a young, chubby fellow of high stature, left the ranks and went with slow steps to the guard-house. It was not he who had said it, but, as he was called out, he did not venture to contradict. "You fellows are too fat, that's what makes you unruly!" shouted the Major. "You wait, you hulking rascal, in three days you'd---- Wait! I'll have it out with you all. Let all those who have nothing to complain of come out of the ranks, I say----" "We're not complaining of anything, your worship," said some of the convicts with a sombre air; the rest preserved an obstinate silence. But the Major wanted nothing further; it was his interest to stop the thing with as little friction as might be. "Ah, _now_ I see! _Nobody_ has anything to complain of," said he. "I knew it, I saw it all. It's ringleaders, there are ringleaders, by God," he went on, speaking to Diatloff. "We must lay our hands on them, every man of them. And now--now--it's time to go to your work. Drummer, there; drummer, a roll!" He told them off himself in small detachments. The convicts dispersed sadly and silently, only too glad to get out of his sight. Immediately after the gangs went off, the Major betook himself to the guard-house, where he began to make his dispositions as to the "ringleaders," but he did not push matters far. It was easy to see that he wanted to be done with the whole business as soon as possible. One of the men charged told us later that he had begged for forgiveness, and that the officer had let him go immediately. There can be no doubt that our Major did not feel firm in the saddle; he had had a fright, I fancy, for a mutiny is always a ticklish thing, and although this complaint of the convicts about the food did not amount really to mutiny (only the Major had been reported to about it, and the Governor himself), yet it was an uncomfortable and dangerous affair. What gave him most anxiety was that the prisoners had been unanimous in their movement, so their discontent had to be got over somehow, at any price. The ringleaders were soon set free. Next day the food was passable, but this improvement did not last long; on the days ensuing the disturbance, the Major went about the prison much more than usual, and always found something irregular to be stopped and punished. Our sergeant came and went in a puzzled, dazed sort of way, as if he could not get over his stupefaction at what had happened. As to the convicts, it took long for them to quiet down again, but their agitation seemed to wear quite a different character; they were restless and perplexed. Some went about with their heads down, without saying a word; others discussed the event in a grumbling, helpless kind of way. A good many said biting things about their own proceedings as though they were quite out of conceit with themselves. "I say, pal, take and eat!" said one. "Where's the mouse that was so ready to bell the cat?" "Let's think ourselves lucky that he did not have us all well beaten." "It would be a good deal better if you thought more and chattered less." "What do _you_ mean by lecturing me? Are you schoolmaster here, I'd like to know?" "Oh, you want putting to the right-about." "Who are you, I'd like to know?" "I'm a man! What are you?" "A man! You're----" "You're----" "I say! Shut up, do! What's the good of all this row?" was the cry from all sides. On the evening of the day the "mutiny" took place, I met Petroff behind the barracks after the day's work. He was looking for me. As he came near me, I heard him exclaim something, which I didn't understand, in a muttering sort of way; then he said no more, and walked by my side in a listless, mechanical fashion. "I say, Petroff, your fellows are not vexed with us, are they?" "Who's vexed?" he asked, as if coming to himself. "The convicts with us--with us nobles." "Why should they be vexed?" "Well, because we did not back them up." "Oh, why should you have kicked up a dust?" he answered, as if trying to enter into my meaning: "you have a table to yourselves, you fellows." "Oh, well, there are some of you, not nobles, who don't eat the regulation food, and who went in with you. We ought to back you up, we're in the same place; we ought to be comrades." "Oh, I _say_. Are you our comrades?" he asked, with unfeigned astonishment. I looked at him; it was clear that he had not the least comprehension of my meaning; but I, on the other hand, entered only too thoroughly into his. I saw now, quite thoroughly, something of which I had before only a confused idea; what I had before guessed at was now sad certainty. It was forced on my perceptions that any sort of real fellowship between the convicts and myself could never be; not even were I to remain in the place as long as life should last. I was a convict of the "special section," a creature for ever apart. The expression of Petroff when he said, "are we comrades, how can that be?" remains, and will always remain before my eyes. There was a look of such frank, naïve surprise in it, such ingenuous astonishment that I could not help asking myself if there was not some lurking irony in the man, just a little spiteful mockery. Not at all, it was simply meant. I was not their comrade, and could not be; that was all. Go you to the right, we'll go to the left! your business is yours, ours is ours. I really fancied that, after the mutiny, they would attack us mercilessly so far as they dared and could, and that our life would become a hell. But nothing of the sort happened; we did not hear the slightest reproach, there was not even an unpleasant allusion to what had happened, it was all simply passed over. They went on teasing us as before when opportunity served, no more. Nobody seemed to bear malice against those who would not join in, but remained in the kitchens, or against those who were the first to cry out that they had nothing to complain of. It was all passed over without a word, to my exceeding astonishment. FOOTNOTES: [7] An insulting phrase which is untranslatable. [8] French in the original Russian. CHAPTER VIII. MY COMPANIONS As will be understood, those to whom I was most drawn were people of my own sort, that is, those of "noble" birth, especially in the early days; but of the three ex-nobles in the place, who were Russians, I knew and spoke to but one, Akim Akimitch; the other two were the spy A----n, and the supposed parricide. Even with Akim I never exchanged a word except when in extremity, in moments when the melancholy on me was simply unendurable, and when I thought I really never should have the chance of getting close to any other human being again. In the last chapter I have tried to show that the convicts were of different types, and tried to classify them; but when I think of Akim Akimitch I don't know how to place him, he was quite _sui generis_, so far as I could observe, in that establishment. There may be, elsewhere, men like him, to whom it seemed as absolutely a matter of indifference whether he was a free man, or in jail at hard labour; at that place he stood alone in this curious impartiality of temperament. He had settled down in the jail as if he was going to pass his whole life, and didn't mind it at all. All his belongings, mattress, cushions, utensils, were so ordered as to give the impression that he was living in a furnished house of his own; there was nothing provisional, temporary, bivouac-like, about him, or his words, or his habits. He had a good many years still to spend in punishment, but I much doubt whether he ever gave a thought to the time when he would get out. He was entirely reconciled to his condition, not because he had made any effort to be so, but simply out of natural submissiveness; but, as far as his comfort went, it came to the same thing. He was not at all a bad fellow, and in the early days his advice and help were quite useful to me; but sometimes, I can't help saying it, his peculiarities deepened my natural melancholy until it became almost intolerable anguish. When I became desperate with silence and solitude of soul, I would get into talk with him; I wanted to hear, and reply to _some_ words falling from a living soul, and the more filled with gall and hatred with all our surroundings they had been, the more would they have been in sympathy with my wretched mood; but he would just barely talk, quietly go on sizing his lanterns, and then begin to tell me some story as to how he had been at a review of troops in 18--, that their general of division was so-and-so, that the manoeuvring had been very pretty, that there had been a change in the skirmisher's system of signalling, and the like; all of it in level imperturbable tones, like water falling drop by drop. He did not put any life into them even when he told me of a sharp affair in which he had been, in the Caucasus, for which his sword had got the decoration of the Riband of St. Anne. The only difference was, that his voice became a little more measured and grave; he lowered his tones when he pronounced the name "St. Anne," as though he were telling a great secret, and then, for three minutes at least, did not utter a word, but only looked solemn. During all that first year I had strange passages of feeling, in which I hated Akim Akimitch with a bitter hatred, I am sure I cannot say why, moments when I would despairingly curse the fate which made him my next neighbour on my camp-bed, so close indeed that our heads nearly touched. An hour afterwards I bitterly reproached myself for such extravagance. It was, however, only during my first year of confinement that these violent feelings overpowered me. As time went on, I got used to Akim Akimitch's singular character, and was ashamed of my former explosions. I don't remember that he and I ever got into anything like an open quarrel. Besides the three Russian nobles of whom I have spoken, there were eight others there during my time; with some of whom I came to be on a footing of intimate friendship. Even the best of them were morbid in mind, exclusive, and intolerant to the very last degree; with two of them I was obliged to discontinue all spoken intercourse. There were only three who had any education, B--ski, M--tski, and the old man, J--ski, who had formerly been a professor of mathematics, an excellent fellow, highly eccentric, and of very narrow mental horizon in spite of his learning. M--tski and B--ski were of a mould quite different from his. Between M--tski and myself there was an excellent understanding from the first set-off. He and I never once got into any sort of dispute; I respected him highly, but could never become sincerely attached to him, though I tried to. He was sour, embittered, and mistrustful, with much self-control; this was quite antipathetic to me; the man had a closed soul, closed to everybody, and he made you feel it. I felt it so strongly that perhaps I was wrong about it. After all, his character, I must say, was stamped with both nobleness and strength. His inveterate scepticism made him very prudent in his relations with everybody about him, and in conducting these he gave proof of remarkable tact and skill. Sceptic as he was, there was another and a reverse side in his nature, for in some things he was a profound and unalterable believer with faith and hope unshakable. In spite of his tact in dealing with men, he got into open hostilities with B--ski and his friend T--ski. The first of these, B--ski, was a man of infirm health, of consumptive tendency, irascible, and of a weak, nervous system; but a good and generous man. His nervous irritability went so far that he was as capricious as a child; a temperament of that kind was too much for me there, so I soon saw as little of B--ski as I could possibly help, though I never ceased to like him much. It was just the other way so far as M--tski was concerned; with him I always was on easy terms, though I did not like him at all. When I edged away from B--ski, I had to break also, more or less, with T--ski, of whom I spoke in the last chapter, which I much regretted, for, though of little education, he had an excellent heart; a worthy, very spiritual man. He loved and respected B--ski so much that those who broke with that friend of his he regarded as his personal enemies. He quarrelled with M--tski on account of B--ski, and they kept up the difference a long while. All these people were as bilious as they could be, humoursome, mistrustful, the victims of a moral and physical supersensitiveness. It is not to be wondered at; their position was trying indeed, much more so than ours; they were all exiled, transported, for ten or twelve years; and what made their sojourn in the prison most distressing to them was their rooted, ingrained prejudice, especially their unfortunate way of regarding the convicts, which they could not get over; in their eyes the unhappy fellows were mere wild beasts, without a single recognisable human quality. Everything in their previous career and their present circumstances combined to produce this unhappy feeling in them. Their life at the jail was perpetual torment to them. They were kindly and conversible with the Circassians, with the Tartars, with Isaiah Fomitch; but for the other prisoners they had nothing but contempt and aversion. The only one they had any real respect for was the aged "old believer." For all this, during all the time I spent at the convict establishment, I never knew a single prisoner to reproach them with either their birth, or religious opinions, or convictions, as is so usual with our common people in their relations with people of different condition, especially if these happen to be foreigners. The fact is, they cannot take the foreigner seriously; to the Russian common people he seems a merely grotesque, comical creature. Our convicts had and showed much more respect for the Polish nobles than for us Russians, but I don't think the Poles cared about the matter, or took any notice of the difference. I spoke just now of T--ski, and have something more to say of him. When he had with his friend to leave the first place assigned to them as residence in their banishment to come to our fortress, he carried his friend B---- nearly the whole way. B---- was of quite a weak frame, and in bad health, and became exhausted before half of the first march was accomplished. They had first been banished to Y--gorsk, where they lived in tolerable comfort; life was much less hard there than in our fortress. But in consequence of a correspondence with the exiles in one of the other towns--a quite innocent exchange of letters--it was thought necessary to remove them to our jail to be under the more direct surveillance of the government. Until they came M--tski had been quite alone, and dreadful must have been his sufferings in that first year of his banishment. J--ski was the old man always deep in prayer, of whom I spoke a little earlier. All the political convicts were quite young men while J--ski was at least fifty years old. He was a worthy, gentlemanlike person, if eccentric. T--ski and B--ski detested him, and never spoke to him; they insisted upon it that he was too obstinate and troublesome to put up with, and I was obliged to admit it was so. I believe that at a convict establishment--as in every place where people have to be together, whether they like it or not--people are more ready to quarrel with and detest one another than under other circumstances. Many causes contributed to the squabbles that were, unfortunately, always going on. J--ski was really disagreeable and narrow-minded; not one of those about him was on good terms with him. He and I did not come to a rupture, but we were never on a really friendly footing. I fancy that he was a strong mathematician. One day he explained to me in his half-Russian, half-Polish jargon, a system of astronomy of his own; I have been told that he had written a work upon the subject which the learned world had received with derision; I fancy his reasonings on some things had got twisted. He used to be on his knees praying for a whole day sometimes, which made the convicts respect him exceedingly during the remnant of life he had to pass there; he died under my eyes at the jail after a very trying illness. He had won the consideration of the prisoners, from the first moment of his coming in, on account of what had happened with the Major and him. When they were brought afoot from Y--gorsk to our fortress, they were not shaved on the road at all, their hair and beards had grown to great lengths when they were brought before the Major. That worthy foamed like a madman; he was wild with indignation at such infraction of discipline, though it was none of their fault. "My God! did you ever see anything like it?" he roared; "they are vagabonds, brigands." J--ski knew very little Russian, and fancied that he was asking them if they were brigands or vagabonds, so he answered: "We are political prisoners, not rogues and vagabonds." "So-o-o! You mean impudence! Clod!" howled the Major. "To the guard-house with him; a hundred strokes of the rod at once, this instant, I say!" They gave the old man the punishment; he lay flat on the ground under the strokes without the slightest resistance, kept his hand in his teeth, and bore it all without a murmur, and without moving a muscle. B--ski and T--ski arrived at the jail as this was all going on, and M--ski was waiting for them at the principal gate, knowing that they were just coming in; he threw himself on their neck, although he had never seen them before. Utterly disgusted at the way the Major had received them, they told M--ski all about the cruel business that had just occurred. M--ski told me later that he was quite beside himself with rage when he heard it. "I could not contain myself for passion," he said, "I shook as though with ague. I waited for J--ski at the great gate, for he would come straight that way from the guard-house after his punishment. The gate was opened, and there I saw pass before me J--ski, his lips all white and trembling, his face pale as death; he did not look at a single person, and passed through the groups of convicts assembled in the court-yard--they knew a noble had just been subjected to punishment--went into the barrack, went straight to his place, and, without a word, dropped down on his knees for prayer. The prisoners were surprised and even affected. When I saw this old man with white hairs, who had left behind him at home a wife and children, kneeling and praying after that scandalous treatment, I rushed away from the barrack, and for a couple of hours felt as if I had gone stark, staring, raving mad, or blind drunk.... From that first moment the convicts were full of deference and consideration for J--ski; what particularly pleased them, was that he did not utter a cry when undergoing the punishment." But one must be fair and tell the truth about this sort of thing; this sad story is not an instance of what frequently occurs in the treatment by the authorities of transported noblemen, Russian or Polish; and this isolated case affords no basis for passing judgment upon that treatment. My anecdote merely shows that you may light upon a bad man anywhere and everywhere. And if it happen that such a one is in absolute command of a jail, and if he happen to have a grudge against one of the prisoners, the lot of such a one will be indeed very far from enviable. But the administrative chiefs who regulate and supervise convict labour in Siberia, and from whom subordinates take their tone as well as their orders, are careful to exercise a discriminating treatment in the case of persons of noble birth, and, in some cases, grant them special indulgences as compared with the lot of convicts of lower condition. There are obvious reasons for this; these heads of departments are nobles themselves, they know that men of that class must not be driven to extremity; cases have been known where nobles have refused to submit to corporal punishment, and flung themselves desperately on their tormentors with very grave and serious consequences indeed; moreover--and this, I think, is the leading cause of the good treatment--some time ago, thirty-five years at least, there were transported to Siberia quite a crowd of noblemen;[9] these were of such correct and irreproachable demeanour, and held themselves so high, that the heads of departments fell into the way, which they never afterwards left, of regarding criminals of noble birth and ordinary convicts in quite a different manner; and men in lower place took their cue from them. Many of these, no doubt, were little pleased with that disposition in their superiors; such persons were pleased enough when they could do exactly as they liked in the matter, but this did not often happen, they were kept well within bounds; I have reason to be satisfied of this and I will say why. I was put in the second category, a classification of those condemned to hard labour, which was primarily and principally composed of convicts who had been serfs, under military superintendence; now this second category, or class, was much harder than the first (of the mines) or the third (manufacturing work). It was harder, not only for the nobles but for the other convicts too, because the governing and administrative methods and _personnel_ in it were wholly military, and were pretty much the same in type as those of the convict establishments in Russia. The men in official position were severer, the general treatment more rigorous than in the two other classes; the men were never out of irons, an escort of soldiers was always present, you were always, or nearly so, within stone walls; and things were quite different in the other classes, at least so the convicts said, and there were those among them who had every reason to know. They would all have gladly gone off to the mines, which the law classified as the worst and last punishment, it was their constant dream and desire to do so. All those who had been in the Russian convict establishments spoke with horror of them, and declared that there was no hell like them, that Siberia was a paradise compared with confinement in the fortresses in Russia. If, then, it is the case that we nobles were treated with special consideration in the establishment I was confined in, which was under direct control of the Governor-General, and administered entirely on military principles, there must have been some greater kindliness in the treatment of the convicts of the first and third category or class. I think I can speak with some authority about what went on throughout Siberia in these respects, and I based my views, as to this, upon all that I heard from convicts of these classes. We, in our prison, were under much more rigorous surveillance than was elsewhere practised; we were favoured with no sort of exemptions from the ordinary rules as regards work and confinement, and the wearing of chains; we could not do anything for ourselves to get immunity from the rules, for I, at least, knew quite well that, _in the good old time which was quite of yesterday_, there had been so much intriguing to undermine the credit of officials that the authorities were greatly afraid of informers, and that, as things stood, to show indulgence to a convict was regarded as a crime. Everybody, therefore, authorities and convicts alike, was in fear of what might happen; we of the nobles were thus quite down to the level of the other convicts; the only point we were favoured in was in regard to corporal punishment--but I think that we should have had even that inflicted on us had we done anything for which it was prescribed, for equality as to punishment was strictly enjoined or practised; what I mean is, that we were not wantonly, causelessly, mishandled like the other prisoners. When the Governor got to know of the punishment inflicted on J--ski, he was seriously angry with the Major, and ordered him to be more careful for the future. The thing got very generally known. We learned also that the Governor-General, who had great confidence in our Major, and who liked him because of his exact observance of legal bounds, and thought highly of his qualities in the service, gave him a sharp scolding. And our Major took the lesson to heart. I have no doubt it was this prevented his having M--ski beaten, which he would much have liked to do, being much influenced by the slanderous things A--f said about M----; but the Major could never get a fair pretext for doing so, however much he persecuted and set spies upon his proposed victim; so he had to deny himself that pleasure. The J--ski affair became known all through the town, and public opinion condemned the Major; some persons reproached him openly for what he had done, and some even insulted him. The first occasion on which the man crossed my path may as well be mentioned. We had alarming things reported to us--to me and another nobleman under sentence--about the abominable character of this man, while we were still at Tobolsk. Men who had been sentenced a long while back to twenty-five years of the misery, nobles as we were, and who had visited us so kindly during our provisional sojourn in the first prison, had warned us what sort of man we were to be under; they had also promised to do all they could for us with their friends to see that he hurt us as little as possible. And, in fact, they did write to the three daughters of the Governor-General, who, I believe, interceded on our behalf with their father. But what could he do? No more, of course, than tell the Major to be fair in applying the rules and regulations to our case. It was about three in the afternoon that my companion and myself arrived in the town; our escort took us at once to our tyrant. We remained waiting for him in the ante-chamber while they went to find the next-in-command at the prison. As soon as the latter had come, in walked the Major. We saw an inflamed scarlet face that boded no good, and affected us quite painfully; he seemed like a sort of spider about to throw itself on a poor fly wriggling in its web. "What's your name, man?" said he to my companion. He spoke with a harsh, jerky voice, as if he wanted to overawe us. My friend gave his name. "And you?" said he, turning to me and glaring at me behind his spectacles. I gave mine. "Sergeant! take 'em to the prison, and let 'em be shaved at the guard-house, civilian-fashion, hair off half their skulls, and let 'em be put in irons to-morrow. Why, what sort of cloaks have you got there?" said he brutally, when he saw the gray cloaks with yellow sewn at the back which they had given to us at Tobolsk. "Why, that's a new uniform, begad--a new uniform! They're always getting up something or other. That's a Petersburg trick," he said, as he inspected us one after the other. "Got anything with them?" he said abruptly to the gendarme who escorted us. "They've got their own clothes, your worship," replied he; and the man carried arms, just as if on parade, not without a nervous tremor. Everybody knew the fellow, and was afraid of him. "Take their clothes away from them. They can't keep anything but their linen, their white things; take away all their coloured things if they've got any, and sell them off at the next sale, and put the money to the prison account. A convict has no property," said he, looking severely at us. "Hark ye! Behave prettily; don't let me have any complaining. If I do--cat-o'-nine-tails! The smallest offence, and to the sticks you go!" This way of receiving me, so different from anything I had ever known, made me nearly ill that night. It was a frightful thing to happen at the very moment of entering the infernal place. But I have already told that part of my story. Thus we had no sort of exemption or immunity from any of the miseries inflicted there, no lightening of our labours when with the other convicts; but friends tried to help us by getting us sent for three months, B--ski and me, to the bureau of the Engineers, to do copying work. This was done quietly, and as much as possible kept from being talked about or observed. This piece of kindness was done for us by the head engineers, during the short time that Lieutenant-Colonel G--kof was Governor at our prison. This gentleman had command there only for six short months, for he soon went back to Russia. He really seemed to us all like an angel of goodness sent from heaven, and the feeling for him among the convicts was of the strongest kind; it was not mere love, it was something like adoration. I cannot help saying so. How he did it I don't know, but their hearts went out to him from the moment they first set eyes on him. "He's more like a father than anything else," the prisoners kept continually saying during all the time he was there at the head of the engineering department. He was a brilliant, joyous fellow. He was of low stature, with a bold, confident expression, and he was all gracious kindness to the convicts, for whom he really did seem to entertain a fatherly sort of affection. How was it he was so fond of them? It is hard to say, but he seemed never to be able to pass a prisoner without a bit of pleasant talk and a little laughing and joking together. There was nothing that smacked of authority in his pleasantries, nothing that reminded them of his position over them. He behaved just as if he was one of themselves. In spite of this kind condescension, I don't remember any one of the convicts ever failing in respect to him or taking the slightest liberty--quite the other way. The convict's face would light up in a wonderful, sudden way when he met the Governor; it was odd to see how the face smiled all over, and the hand went to the cap, when the Governor was seen in the distance making for the poor man. A word from him was regarded as a signal honour. There are some people like that, who know how to win all hearts. G--kof had a bold, jaunty air, walked with long strides, holding himself very straight; "a regular eagle," the convicts used to call him. He could not do much to lighten their lot materially, for his office was that of superintending the engineering work, which had to be done in ways and quantities, settled absolutely and unalterably by the regulations. But if he happened to come across a gang of convicts who had actually got through their work, he allowed them to go back to quarters before beat of drum, without waiting for the regulation moment. The prisoners loved him for the confidence he showed in them, and because of his aversion for all mean, trifling interferences with them, which are so irritating when prison superiors are addicted to that sort of thing. I am absolutely certain that if he had lost a thousand roubles in notes, there was not a thief in the prison, however hardened, who would not have brought them to him, if the man lit on them. I am sure of it. How the prisoners all felt for him, and with him when they learned that he was at daggers drawn with our detested Major. That came about a month after his arrival. Their delight knew no bounds. The Major had formerly served with him in the same detachment; so, when they met, after a long separation, they were at first boon companions, but the intimacy could not and did not last. They came to blows--figuratively--and G--kof became the Major's sworn enemy. Some would have it that it was _more_ than figuratively, that they came to actual fisticuffs, a likely thing enough as far as the Major was concerned, for the man had no objection to a scrimmage. When the convicts heard of the quarrel they really could not contain their delight. "Old Eight-eyes and the Commandant get on finely together! _He's_ an eagle; but the other's a _bad 'un_!" Those who believed in the fight were mighty curious to know which of the two had had the worst of it, and got a good drubbing. If it had been proved there had been no fighting our convicts, I think, would have been bitterly disappointed. "The Commandant gave him fits, you may bet your life on it," said they; "he's a little 'un, but as bold as a lion; the other one got into a blue funk, and hid under the bed from him." But G--kof went away only too soon, and keenly was he regretted in the prison. Our engineers were all most excellent fellows; we had three or four fresh batches of them while I was there. "Our eagles never remain very long with us," said the prisoners; "especially when they are good and kind fellows." It was this G--kof who sent B--ski and myself to work in his bureau, for he was partial to exiled nobles. When he left, our condition was still fairly endurable, for there was another engineer there who showed us much sympathy and friendship. We copied reports for some time, and our handwriting was getting to be very good, when an order came from the authorities that we were to be sent back to hard labour as before; some spiteful person had been at work. At bottom we were rather pleased, for we were quite tired of copying. For two whole years I worked in company with B--ski, all the time in the shops, and many a gossip did we have about our hopes for the future and our notions and convictions. Good B--ski had a very odd mind, which worked in a strange, exceptional way. There are some people of great intelligence who indulge in paradox unconscionably; but when they have undergone great and constant sufferings for their ideas and made great sacrifices for them, you can't drive their notions out of their heads, and it is cruel to try it. When you objected something to B--ski's propositions, he was really hurt, and gave you a violent answer. He was, perhaps, more in the right than I was as to some things wherein we differed, but we were obliged to give one another up, very much to my regret, for we had many thoughts in common. As years went on M--tski became more and more sombre and melancholy; he became a prey to despair. During the earliest part of my imprisonment he was communicative enough, and let us see what was going on in him. When I arrived at the prison he had just finished his second year. At first he took a lively interest in the news I brought, for he knew nothing of what had been going on in the outer world; he put questions to me, listened eagerly, showed emotion, but, bit by bit, his reserve grew on him and there was no getting at his thoughts. The glowing coals were all covered up with ashes. Yet it was plain that his temper grew sourer and sourer. "_Je hais ces brigands_,"[10] he would say, speaking of convicts I had got to know something of; I never could make him see any good in them. He really did not seem to fully enter into the meaning of anything I said on their behalf, though he would sometimes seem to agree in a listless sort of way. Next day it was just as before: "_je hais ces brigands_." (We used often to speak French with him; so one of the overseers of the works, the soldier, Dranichnikof, used always to call us _aides chirurgiens_, God knows why!) M--tski never seemed to shake off his usual apathy except when he spoke of his mother. "She is old and infirm," he said; "she loves me better than anything in the world, and I don't even know if she's still living. If she learns that I've been whipped----" M--tski was not a noble, and had been whipped before he was transported. When the recollection of this came up in his mind he gnashed his teeth, and could not look anybody in the face. In the latest days of his imprisonment he used to walk to and fro, quite alone for the most part. One day, at noon, he was summoned to the Governor, who received him with a smile on his lips. "Well, M--tski, what were your dreams last night?" asked the Governor. Said M--tski to me later, "When he said that to me a shudder ran through me; I felt struck at the heart." His answer was, "I dreamed that I had a letter from my mother." "Better than that, better!" replied the Governor. "You are free; your mother has petitioned the Emperor, and he has granted her prayer. Here, here's her letter, and the order for your dismissal. You are to leave the jail without delay." He came to us pale, scarcely able to believe in his good fortune. We congratulated him. He pressed our hands with his own, which were quite cold, and trembled violently. Many of the convicts wished him joy; they were really glad to see his happiness. He settled in Siberia, establishing himself in our town, where a little after that they gave him a place. He used often to come to the jail to bring us news, and tell us all that was going on, as often as he could talk with us. It was political news that interested him chiefly. Besides the four Poles, the political convicts of whom I spoke just now, there were two others of that nation, who were sentenced for very short periods; they had not much education, but were good, simple, straightforward fellows. There was another, A--tchoukooski, quite a colourless person; one more I must mention, B--in, a man well on in years, who impressed us all very unfavourably indeed. I don't know what he had been sentenced for, although he used to tell us some story or other about it pretty frequently. He was a person of a vulgar, mean type, with the coarse manner of an enriched shopkeeper. He was quite without education, and seemed to take interest in nothing except what concerned his trade, which was that of a painter, a sort of scene-painter he was; he showed a good deal of talent in his work, and the authorities of the prison soon came to know about his abilities, so he got employment all through the town in decorating walls and ceilings. In two years he beautified the rooms of nearly all the prison officials, who remunerated him handsomely, so he lived pretty comfortably. He was sent to work with three other prisoners, two of whom learned the business thoroughly; one of these, T--jwoski, painted nearly as well as B--in himself. Our Major, who had rooms in one of the government buildings, sent for B--in, and gave him a commission to decorate the walls and ceilings there, which he did so effectively, that the suite of rooms of the Governor-General were quite put out of countenance by those of the Major. The house itself was a ramshackle old place, while the interior, thanks to B--in, was as gay as a palace. Our worthy Major was hugely delighted, went about rubbing his hands, and told everybody that he should look out for a wife at once, "a fellow _can't_ remain single when he lives in a place like that;" he was quite serious about it. The Major's satisfaction with B--in and his assistants went on increasing. They occupied a month in the work at the Major's house. During those memorable days the Major seemed to get into a different frame of mind about us, and began to be quite kind to us political prisoners. One day he sent for J--ski. "J--ski," said he, "I've done you wrong; I had you beaten for nothing. I'm very sorry. Do you understand? I'm very sorry. I, Major ----" J--ski answered that he understood perfectly. "Do you understand? I, who am set over you, I have sent for you to ask your pardon. You can hardly realise it, I suppose. What are you to me, fellow? A worm, less than a crawling worm; you're a convict, while I, by God's grace,[11] am a Major; Major ----, _do_ you understand?" J--ski answered that he quite well understood it all. "Well, I want to be friends with you. But can you appreciate what I'm doing? Can you feel the greatness of soul I'm showing--feel and appreciate it? Just think of it; I, I, the Major!" etc. etc. J--ski told me of this scene. There was, then, some human feeling left in this drunken, unruly, and tormenting brute. Allowing for the man's notions of things, and feeble faculties, one cannot deny that this was a generous proceeding on his part. Perhaps he was a little less drunk than usual, perhaps more; who can tell? The Major's glorious idea of marrying came to nothing; the rooms got all their bravery, but the wife was not forthcoming. Instead of going to the altar in that agreeable way, he was pulled up before the authorities and sent to trial. He received orders to send in his resignation. Some of his old sins had found him out, it seems; things done when he had been superintendent of police in our town. This crushing blow came down upon him without notice, quite suddenly. All the convicts were greatly rejoiced when they heard the great news; it was high day and holiday all through the jail. The story went abroad that the Major sobbed, and cried, and howled like an old woman. But he was helpless in the matter. He was obliged to leave his place, sell his two gray horses, and everything he had in the world; and he fell into complete destitution. We came across him occasionally afterwards in civilian, threadbare clothes, and wearing a cap with a cockade; he glanced at us convicts as spitefully and maliciously as you please. But without his Major's uniform, all the man's glory was gone. While placed over us, he gave himself the airs of a being higher than human, who had got into coat and breeches; now it was all over, he looked like the lackey he was, and a disgraced lackey to boot. With fellows of this sort, the uniform is the only saving grace; that gone, all's gone. FOOTNOTES: [9] The Decembrists. [10] French in the original Russian. [11] Our Major was not the only officer who spoke of himself in that lofty way; a good many officers did the same, men who had risen from the ranks chiefly. CHAPTER IX. THE ESCAPE A little while after the Major resigned, our prison was subjected to a thorough reorganization. The "hard labour" hitherto inflicted, and the other regulations, were abolished, and the place put upon the footing of the military convict establishments of Russia. As a result of this, prisoners of the second category were no longer sent there; this class was, for the future, to be composed of prisoners who were regarded as still on the military footing, that is to say, men who, in spite of sentence, did not forfeit for ever their civic _status_. They were soldiers still, but had undergone corporal punishment; they were sentenced for comparatively short periods, six years at most; when they had served their time, or in case of pardon, they went into the ranks again, as before. Men guilty of a second offence were sentenced to twenty years of imprisonment. Up to the time I speak of, we had a section of soldier-prisoners among us, but only because they did not know where else to dispose of them. Now the place was to be occupied by soldiers exclusively. As to the civilian convicts, who were stripped of all civic rights, branded, cropped, and shaven, these were to remain in the fortress to finish their time; but as no fresh prisoners of this class were to come in, and those there would get their discharge successively, at the end of ten years there would be no civilian convicts left in the place, according to the arrangements. The line of division between the classes of prisoners there was maintained; from time to time there came in other military criminals of high position, sent to our place for security, before being forwarded to Eastern Siberia, for the more aggravated penalties that awaited them there. There was no change in our general way of life. The work we had to do and the discipline observed were the same as before; but the administrative system was entirely altered, and made more complex. An officer, commandant of companies, was assigned to be at the head of the prison; he had under his orders four subaltern officers who mounted guard by turns. The "invalids" were superseded by twelve non-commissioned officers, and an arsenal superintendent. The convicts were divided into sections of ten, and corporals chosen among them; the power of these over the others was, as may be supposed, nominal. As might be expected, Akim Akimitch got this promotion. All these new arrangements were confided to the Governor to carry out, who remained in superior command over the whole establishment. The changes did not go further than this. At first the convicts were not a little excited by this movement, and discussed their new guardians a good deal among themselves, trying to make out what sort of fellows they were; but when they saw that everything went on pretty much as usual they quieted down, and things resumed their ordinary course. We had got rid of the Major, and that was something; everybody took fresh breath and fresh courage. The fear that was in all hearts grew less; we had some assurance that in case of need we could go to our superiors and lodge our complaint, and that a man could not be punished without cause, and would not, unless by mistake. Brandy was brought in as before, although we had subaltern officers now where "invalids" were before. These subalterns were all worthy, careful men, who knew their place and business. There were some among them who had the idea that they might give themselves grand airs, and treat us like common soldiers, but they soon gave it up and behaved like the others. Those who did not seem to be well able to get into their heads what the ways of our prison really were, had sharp lessons about it from the convicts themselves, which led to some lively scenes. One sub-officer was confronted with brandy, which was of course too much for him; when he was sober again we had a little explanation with him; we pointed out that he had been drinking with the prisoners, and that, accordingly, etc. etc.; he became quite tractable. The end of it was that the subalterns closed their eyes to the brandy business. They went to market for us, just as the invalids used to, and brought the prisoners white bread, meat, anything that could be got in without too much risk. So I never could understand why they had gone to the trouble of turning the place into a military prison. The change was made two years before I left the place; I had two years to bear of it still. I see little use in recording all I saw and went through later at the convict establishment day by day. If I were to tell it all, all the daily and hourly occurrences, I might write twice or thrice as many chapters as this book ought to contain, but I should simply tire the reader and myself. Substantially all that I might write has been already embodied in the narrative as it stands so far; and the reader has had the opportunity of getting a tolerable idea of what the life of a convict of the second class really was. My wish has been to portray the state of things at the establishment, and as it affected myself, accurately and yet forcibly; whether I have done so others must judge. I cannot pronounce upon my own work, but I think I may well draw it to a close; as I move among these recollections of a dreadful past, the old suffering comes up again and all but strangles me. Besides, I cannot be sure of my memory as to all I saw in these last years, for the faculty seems blunted as regards the later compared with the earlier period of my imprisonment, there is a good deal I am sure I have quite forgotten. But I remember only too well how very, very slow these last two years were, how very sad, how the days seemed as if they never would come to evening, something like water falling drop by drop. I remember, too, that I was filled with a mighty longing for my resurrection from that grave which gave me strength to bear up, to wait, and to hope. And so I got to be hardened and enduring; I lived on expectation, I counted every passing day; if there were a thousand more of them to pass at the prison I found satisfaction in thinking that one of them was gone, and only nine hundred and ninety-nine to come. I remember, too, that though I had round me a hundred persons in like case, I felt myself more and more solitary, and though the solitude was awful I came to love it. Isolated thus among the convict-crowd I went over all my earlier life, analysing its events and thoughts minutely; I passed my former doings in review, and sometimes was pitiless in condemnation of myself; sometimes I went so far as to be grateful to fate for the privilege of such loneliness, for only that could have caused me so severely to scrutinise my past, so searchingly to examine its inner and outer life. What strong and strange new germs of hope came in those memorable hours up in my soul! I weighed and decided all sorts of issues, I entered into a compact with myself to avoid the errors of former years, and the rocks on which I had been wrecked; I laid down a programme for my future, and vowed that I would stick to it; I had a sort of blind and complete conviction that, once away from that place, I should be able to carry out everything I made my mind up to; I looked for my freedom with transports of eager desire; I wanted to try my strength in a renewed struggle with life; sometimes I was clutched, as by fangs, by an impatience which rose to fever heat. It is painful to go back to these things, most painful; nobody, I know, can care much about it at all except myself; but I write because I think people will understand, and because there are those who have been, those who yet will be, like myself, condemned, imprisoned, cut off from life, in the flower of their age, and in the full possession of all their strength. But all this is useless. Let me end my memoirs with a narrative of something interesting, for I must not close them too abruptly. What shall it be? Well, it may occur to some to ask whether it was quite impossible to escape from the jail, and if during the time I spent there no attempt of the kind was made. I have already said that a prisoner who has got through two or three years thinks a good deal of it, and, as a rule, concludes that it is best to finish his time without running more risks, so that he may get his settlement, on the land or otherwise, when set at liberty. But those who reckon in this way are convicts sentenced for comparatively short times; those who have many years to serve are always ready to run some chances. For all that the attempts at escape were quite infrequent. Whether that was attributable to the want of spirit in the convicts, the severity of the military discipline enforced, or, after all, to the situation of the town, little favourable to escapes, for it was in the midst of the open steppe, I really cannot say. All these motives no doubt contributed to give pause. It was difficult enough to get out of the prison at all; in my time two convicts tried it; they were criminals of importance. When our Major had been got rid of, A--v, the spy, was quite alone with nobody to back him up. He was still quite young, but his character grew in force with every year; he was a bold, self-asserting fellow, of considerable intelligence. I think if they had set him at liberty he would have gone on spying and getting money in every sort of shameful way, but I don't think he would have let himself be caught again; he would have turned his experiences as a convict to far too much good for that. One trick he practised was that of forging passports, at least so I heard from some of the convicts. I think this fellow was ready to risk everything for a change in his position. Circumstances gave me the opportunity of getting to the bottom of this man's disposition and seeing how ugly it was; he was simply revolting in his cold, deep wickedness, and my disgust with him was more than I could get over. I do believe that if he wanted a drink of brandy, and could only have got it by killing some one, he would not have hesitated one moment if it was pretty certain the crime would not come out. He had learned there, in that jail, to look on everything in the coolest calculating way. It was on him that the choice of Koulikoff--of the special section--fell, as we are to see. I have spoken before of Koulikoff. He was no longer young, but full of ardour, life, and vigour, and endowed with extraordinary faculties. He felt his strength, and wanted still to have a life of his own; there are some men who long to live in a rich, abounding life, even when old age has got hold of them. I should have been a good deal surprised if Koulikoff had _not_ tried to escape; but he did. Which of the two, Koulikoff and A--v, had the greater influence over the other I really cannot say; they were a goodly couple, and suited each other to a hair, so they soon became as thick as possible. I fancy that Koulikoff reckoned on A--v to forge a passport for him; besides, the latter was of the noble class, belonged to good society, a circumstance out of which a good deal could be made if they managed to get back into Russia. Heaven only knows what compacts they made, or what plans and hopes they formed; if they got as far as Russia they would at all events leave behind them Siberia and vagabondage. Koulikoff was a versatile man, capable of playing many a part on the stage of life, and had plenty of ability to go upon, whatever direction his efforts took. To such persons the jail is strangulation and suffocation. So the two set about plotting their escape. But to get away without a soldier to act as escort was impossible; so a soldier had to be won. In one of the battalions stationed at our fortress was a Pole of middle life--an energetic fellow worthy of a better fate--serious, courageous. When he arrived first in Siberia, quite young, he had deserted, for he could not stand his sufferings from nostalgia. He was captured and whipped. During two years he formed part of the disciplinary companies to which offenders are sent; then he rejoined his battalion, and, showing himself zealous in the service, had been rewarded by promotion to the rank of corporal. He had a good deal of self-love, and spoke like a man who had no small conceit of himself. I took particular notice of the man sometimes when he was among the soldiers who had charge of us, for the Poles had spoken to me about him; and I got the idea that his longing for his native country had taken the form of a chill, fixed, deadly hatred for those who kept him away from it. He was the sort of man to stick at nothing, and Koulikoff showed that his scent was good, when he pitched on this man to be an accomplice in his flight. This corporal's name was Kohler. Koulikoff and he settled their plans and fixed the day. It was the month of June, the hottest of the year. The climate of our town and neighbourhood was pretty equable, especially in summer, which is a very good thing for tramps and vagabonds. To make off far after leaving the fortress was quite out of the question, it being situated on rising ground and in uncovered country, for though surrounded by woods, these are a considerable distance away. A disguise was indispensable, and to procure it they must manage to get into the outskirts of the town, where Koulikoff had taken care some time before to prepare a den of some sort. I don't know whether his worthy friends in that part of the town were in the secret. It may be presumed they were, though there is no evidence. That year, however, a young woman who led a gay life and was very pretty, settled down in a nook of that same part of the city, near the county. This young person attracted a good deal of notice, and her career promised to be something quite remarkable; her nickname was "Fire and Flame." I think that she and the fugitives concerted the plans of escape together, for Koulikoff had lavished a good deal of attention and money on her for more than a year. When the gangs were formed each morning, the two fellows, Koulikoff and A--v, managed to get themselves sent out with the convict Chilkin, whose trade was that of stove-maker and plasterer, to do up the empty barracks when the soldiers went into camp. A--v and Koulikoff were to help in carrying the necessary materials. Kohler got himself put into the escort on the occasion; as the rules required three soldiers to act as escort for two prisoners, they gave him a young recruit whom he was doing corporal's duty upon, drilling and training him. Our fugitives must have exercised a great deal of influence over Kohler to deceive him, to cast his lot in with them, serious, intelligent, and reflective man as he was, with so few more years of service to pass in the army. They arrived at the barracks about six o'clock in the morning; there was nobody with them. After having worked about an hour, Koulikoff and A--v told Chilkin that they were going to the workshop to see some one, and fetch a tool they wanted. They had to go carefully to work with Chilkin, and speak in as natural a tone as they could. The man was from Moscow, by trade a stove-maker, sharp and cunning, keen-sighted, not talkative, fragile in appearance, with little flesh on his bones. He was the sort of person who might have been expected to pass his life in honest working dress, in some Moscow shop, yet here he was in the "special section," after many wanderings and transfers among the most formidable military criminals; so fate had ordered. What had he done to deserve such severe punishment? I had not the least idea; he never showed the least resentment or sour feeling, and went on in a quiet, inoffensive way; now and then he got as drunk as a lord; but, apart from that, his conduct was perfectly good. Of course he was not in the secret, so he had to be thrown off the scent. Koulikoff told him, with a wink, that they were going to get some brandy, which had been hidden the day before in the workshop, which suited Chilkin's book perfectly; he had not the least notion of what was up, and remained alone with the young recruit, while Koulikoff, A--v, and Kohler betook themselves to the suburbs of the town. Half-an-hour passed; the men did not come back. Chilkin began to think, and the truth dawned upon him. He remembered that Koulikoff had not seemed at all like himself, that he had seen him whispering and winking to A--v; he was sure of that, and the whole thing seemed suspicious to him. Kohler's behaviour had struck him, too; when he went off with the two convicts, the corporal had given the recruit orders what he was to do in his absence, which he had never known him do before. The more Chilkin thought over the matter the less he liked it. Time went on; the convicts did not return; his anxiety was great; for he saw that the authorities would suspect him of connivance with the fugitives, so that his own skin was in danger. If he made any delay in giving information of what had occurred, suspicion of himself would grow into conviction that he knew what the men intended when they left him, and he would be dealt with as their accomplice. There was no time to lose. It came into his mind, then, that Koulikoff and A--v had become markedly intimate for some time, and that they had been often seen laying their heads together behind the barracks, by themselves. He remembered, too, that he had more than once fancied that they were up to something together. He looked attentively at the soldier with him as escort; the fellow was yawning, leaning on his gun, and scratching his nose in the most innocent manner imaginable; so Chilkin did not think it necessary to speak of his anxieties to this man: he told him simply to come with him to the engineers' workshops. His object was to ask if anybody there had seen his companions; but nobody there had, so Chilkin's suspicions grew stronger and stronger. If only he could think that they had gone to get drunk and have a spree in the outskirts of the town, as Koulikoff often did. No, thought Chilkin, that was _not_ so. They would have told him, for there was no need to make a mystery of that. Chilkin left his work, and went straight back to the jail. It was about nine o'clock when he reached the sergeant-major, to whom he mentioned his suspicions. That officer was frightened, and at first could not believe there was anything in it all. Chilkin had, in fact, expressed no more than a vague misgiving that all was not as it should be. The sergeant-major ran to the Major, who in his turn ran to the Governor. In a quarter-of-an-hour all necessary measures were taken. The Governor-General was communicated with. As the convicts in question were persons of importance, it might be expected that the matter would be seriously viewed at St. Petersburg. A--v was classed among political prisoners, by a somewhat random official proceeding, it would seem; Koulikoff was a convict of the "special section," that is to say, as a criminal of the blackest dye, and, what was worse, was an ex-soldier. It was then brought to notice that according to the regulations each convict of the "special section" ought to have two soldiers assigned as escort when he went to work; the regulations had not been observed as to this, so that everybody was exposed to serious trouble. Expresses were sent off to all the district offices of the municipality, and all the little neighbouring towns, to warn the authorities of the escape of the two convicts, and a full description furnished of their persons. Cossacks were sent out to hunt them up, letters sent to the authorities of all adjoining Governmental districts. And everybody was frightened to death. The excitement was quite as great all through the prison; as the convicts returned from work, they heard the tremendous news, which spread rapidly from man to man; all received it with deep, though secret satisfaction. Their emotion was as natural as it was great. The affair broke the monotony of their lives, and gave them something to think of; but, above all, it was an escape, and as such, something to sympathise with deeply, and stirred fibres in the poor fellows which had long been without any exciting stimulus; something like hope and a disposition to confront their fate set their hearts beating, for the incident seemed to show that their hard lot was not hopelessly unchangeable. "Well, you see they've got off in spite of them! Why shouldn't we?" The thought came into every man's mind, and made him stiffen his back and look at his neighbours in a defiant sort of way. All the convicts seemed to grow an inch taller on the strength of it, and to look down a bit upon the sub-officers. The heads of the place soon came running up, as you may imagine. The Governor now arrived in person. We fellows looked at them all with some assurance, with a touch of contempt, and with a very set expression of face, as though to say: "Well, you there? We can get out of your clutches when we've a mind to." All the men were quite sure there would be a general searching of everything and everybody; so everything that was at all contraband was carefully hidden; for the authorities would want to show that precious wisdom of theirs which may be reckoned on after the event. The expectation was verified; there was a mighty turning of everything upside down and topsy-turvy, a general rummage, with the discovery of exactly nothing, as they might have known. When the time came for going out to work after dinner the usual escorts were doubled. When night came, the officers and sub-officers on service came pouncing on us at every moment to see if we were off our guard, and if anything could be got out of us; the lists were gone over once more than the usual number of times, which extra mustering only gave more trouble for nothing; we were hunted out of the court-yard that our names might be gone through again. Then, when in barrack, they reckoned us up another time, as if they never could be done with the exercise. The convicts were not at all disturbed by all this bustling absurdity. They put on a very unconcerned demeanour, and, as is always the case in such a conjuncture, behaved in the prettiest manner all that evening and night. "We won't give them any handle anyhow," was the general feeling. The question with the authorities was whether some among us were not in complicity with those who had got away, so a careful watch was kept over our doings, and a careful ear for our conversations; but nothing came of it. "Not such fools, those fellows, as to leave anybody behind who was in the secret!" "When you go at that sort of thing you lie low and play low!" "Koulikoff and A--v know enough to have covered up their tracks. They've done the trick in first-rate style, keeping things to themselves; they've mizzled, the rascals; clever chaps, those, they could get through shut doors!" The glory of Koulikoff and A--v had grown a hundred cubits higher than it was. Everybody was proud of them. Their exploit, it was felt, would be handed down to the most distant posterity, and outlive the jail itself. "Rattling fellows, those!" said one. "Can't get away from here, eh? _That's_ their notion, is it? Just look at those chaps!" "Yes," said a third, looking very superior, "but who _is_ it that has got away? Tip-top fellows. _You_ can't hold a candle to them." At any other time the man to whom anything of that sort was said would have replied angrily enough, and defended himself; now the observation was met with modest silence. "True enough," was said. "Everybody's not a Koulikoff or an A--v, you've got to show what you're made of before you've a right to speak." "I say, pals, after all, why do we remain in the place?" struck in a prisoner seated by the kitchen window; he spoke drawlingly, but the man, you could see, enjoyed it all; he slowly rubbed his cheek with the palm of his hand. "Why do we stop? It's no life at all, we've been buried, though we're alive and kicking. Now _isn't_ it so?" "Oh, curse it, you can't get out of prison as easy as shaking off an old boot. I tell you it sticks to your calves. What's the good of pulling a long face over it?" "But, look here; there is Koulikoff now," began one of the most eager, a mere lad. "Koulikoff!" exclaimed another, looking askance at the young fellow. "Koulikoff! They don't turn out Koulikoffs by the dozen." "And A--v, pals, there's a lad for you!" "Aye, aye, he'll get Koulikoff just where he wants him, as often as he wants him. He's up to everything, he is." "I wonder how far they've got; that's what _I_ want to know," said one. Then the talk went off into details: Had they got far from the town? What direction did they go off in? _Which_ gave them the best chance? Then they discussed distances, and as there were convicts who knew the neighbourhood well, these were attentively listened to. Next, they talked over the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages, of whom they seemed to think as badly as possible. There was nobody in the neighbourhood, the convicts believed, who would hesitate at all as to the course to be pursued; nothing would induce them to help the runaways; quite the other way, these people would hunt them down. "If you only knew what bad fellows these peasants are! Rascally brutes!" "Peasants, indeed! Worthless scamps!" "These Siberians are as bad as bad can be. They think nothing of killing a man." "Oh, well, our fellows----" "Yes, that's it, they may come off second best. Our fellows are as plucky as plucky can be." "Well, if we live long enough, we shall hear something about them soon." "Well, now, what do you _think_? Do you think they really will get clean away?" "I am sure, as I live, that they'll never be caught," said one of the most excited, giving the table a great blow with his fist. "Hm! That's as things turn out." "I'll tell you what, friends," said Skouratof, "if I once got out, I'd stake my life they'd never get me again." "_You?_" Everybody burst out laughing. They would hardly condescend to listen to him; but Skouratof was not to be put down. "I tell you I'd stake my life on it!" with great energy. "Why, I made my mind up to _that_ long ago. I'd find means of going through a key-hole rather than let them lay hands on me." "Oh, don't you fear, when your belly got empty you'd just go creeping to a peasant and ask him for a morsel of something." Fresh laughter. "I ask him for victuals? You're a liar!" "Hold your jaw, can't you? We know what you were sent here for. You and your Uncle Vacia killed some peasant for bewitching your cattle."[12] More laughter. The more serious among them seemed very angry and indignant. "You're a liar," cried Skouratof; "it's Mikitka who told you that; I wasn't in that at all, it was Uncle Vacia; don't you mix my name up in it. I'm a Moscow man, and I've been on the tramp ever since I was a very small thing. Look here, when the priest taught me to read the liturgy, he used to pinch my ears, and say, 'Repeat this after me: Have pity on me, Lord, out of Thy great goodness;' and he used to make me say with him, 'They've taken me up and brought me to the police-station out of Thy great goodness,' and the like. I tell you that went on when I was quite a little fellow." All laughed heartily again; that was what Skouratof wanted; he liked playing clown. Soon the talk became serious again, especially among the older men and those who knew a good deal about escapes. Those among the younger convicts who could keep themselves quiet enough to listen, seemed highly delighted. A great crowd was assembled in and about the kitchen. There were none of the warders about; so everybody could give vent to his feelings in talk or otherwise. One man I noticed who was particularly enjoying himself, a Tartar, a little fellow with high cheek-bones, and a remarkably droll face. His name was Mametka, he could scarcely speak Russian at all, but it was odd to see the way he craned his neck forward into the crowd, and the childish delight he showed. "Well, Mametka, my lad, _iakchi_." "_Iakchi, ouk, iakchi!_" said Mametka as well as he could, shaking his grotesque head. "_Iakchi._" "They'll never catch them, eh? _Iok._" "_Iok, iok!_" and Mametka waggled his head and threw his arms about. "You're a liar, then, and I don't know what you're talking about. Hey!" "That's it, that's it, _iakchi_!" answered poor Mametka. "All right, good, _iakchi_ it is!" Skouratof gave him a thump on the head, which sent his cap down over his eyes, and went out in high glee, and Mametka was quite chapfallen. For a week or so a very tight hand was kept on everybody in the jail, and the whole neighbourhood was repeatedly and carefully searched. How they managed it I cannot tell, but the prisoners always seemed to know all about the measures taken by the authorities for recovering the runaways. For some days, according to all we heard, things went very favourably for them; no traces whatever of them could be found. Our convicts made very light of all the authorities were about, and were quite at their ease about their friends, and kept saying that nothing would ever be found out about them. All the peasants round about were roused, we were told, and watching all the likely places, woods, ravines, etc. "Stuff and nonsense!" said our fellows, who had a grin on their faces most of the time, "they're hidden at somebody's place who's a friend." "That's certain; they're not the fellows to chance things, they've made all sure." The general idea was, in fact, that they were still concealed in the suburbs of the town, in a cellar, waiting till the hue and cry was over, and for their hair to grow; that they would remain there perhaps six months at least, and then quietly go off. All the prisoners were in the most fanciful and romantic state of mind about the things. Suddenly, eight days after the escape, a rumour spread that the authorities were on their track. This rumour was at first treated with contempt, but towards evening there seemed to be more in it. The convicts became much excited. Next morning it was said in the town that the runaways had been caught, and were being brought back. After dinner there were further details; the story was that they had been seized at a hamlet, seventy versts away from the town. At last we had fully confirmed tidings. The sergeant-major positively asserted, immediately after an interview with the Major, that they would be brought into the guard-house that very night. They were taken; there could be no doubt of it. It is difficult to convey an adequate idea of the way the convicts were affected by the news. At first their rage was great, then they were deeply dejected. Then they began to be bitter and sarcastic, pouring all their scorn, not on the authorities, but on the runaways who had been such fools as to get caught. A few began this, then nearly all joined, except a small number of the more serious, thoughtful ones, who held their tongues, and seemed to regard the thoughtless fellows with great contempt. Poor Koulikoff and A--v were now just as heartily abused as they had been glorified before; the men seemed to take a delight in running them down, as though in being caught they had done something wantonly offensive to their mates. It was said, with high contempt, that the fellows had probably got hungry and couldn't stand it, and had gone into a village to ask bread of the peasants, which, according to tramp etiquette, it appears, is to come down very low in the world indeed. In this supposition the men turned out to be quite mistaken; for what had happened was that the tracks of the runaways out of the town were discovered and followed up; they were ascertained to have got into a wood, which was surrounded, so that the fugitives had no recourse but to give themselves up. They were brought in that night, tied hands and feet, under armed escort. All the convicts ran hastily to the palisades to see what would be done with them; but they saw nothing except the carriages of the Governor and the Major, which were waiting in front of the guard-house. The fugitives were ironed and locked up separately, their punishment being adjourned till the next day. The prisoners began all to sympathise with the unhappy fellows when they heard how they had been taken, and learned that they could not help themselves, and the anxiety about the issue was keen. "They'll get a thousand at least." "A thousand, is it? I tell you they'll have it till the life is beaten out of them. A--v may get off with a thousand, but the other they'll kill; why, he's in the 'special section.'" They were wrong. A--v was sentenced to five hundred strokes, his previous good conduct told in his favour, and this was his first prison offence. Koulikoff, I believe, had fifteen hundred. The punishment, upon the whole, was mild rather than severe. The two men showed good sense and feeling, for they gave nobody's name as having helped them, and positively declared that they had made straight for the woods without going into anybody's house. I was very sorry for Koulikoff; to say nothing of the heavy beating he got; he had thrown away all his chances of having his lot as a prisoner lightened. Later he was sent to another convict establishment. A--v did not get all he was sentenced to; the physicians interfered, and he was let off. But as soon as he was safe in the hospital he began blowing his trumpet again, and said he would stick at nothing now, and that they should soon see what he would do. Koulikoff was not changed a bit, as decorous as ever, and gave himself just the same airs as ever; manner or words to show that he had had such an adventure. But the convicts looked on him quite differently; he seemed to have come down a good deal in their estimation, and now to be on their own level every way, instead of being a superior creature. So it was that poor Koulikoff's star paled; success is everything in this world. FOOTNOTE: [12] The expression of the original is untranslatable; literally "you killed a cattle-kill." This phrase means murder of a peasant, male or female, supposed to bewitch cattle. We had in our jail a murderer who had done this cattle-kill.--DOSTOÏEFFSKY'S NOTE. CHAPTER X. FREEDOM! This incident occurred during my last year of imprisonment. My recollection of what occurred this last year is as keen as of the events of the first years; but I have gone into detail enough. In spite of my impatience to be out, this year was the least trying of all the years I spent there. I had now many friends and acquaintances among the convicts, who had by this time made up their minds very much in my favour. Many of them, indeed, had come to feel a sincere and genuine affection for me. The soldier who was assigned to accompany my friend and myself--simultaneously discharged--out of the prison, very nearly cried when the time for leaving came. And when we were at last in full freedom, staying in the rooms of the Government building placed at our disposal for the month we still spent in the town, this man came nearly every day to see us. But there were some men whom I could never soften or win any regard from--God knows why--and who showed just the same hard aversion for me at the last as at the first; something we could not get over stood between us. I had more indulgences during the last year. I found among the military functionaries of our town old acquaintances, and even some old schoolfellows, and the renewal of these relations helped me. Thanks to them I got permission to have some money, to write to my family, and even to have some books. For some years I had not had a single volume, and words would fail to tell the strange, deep emotion and excitement which the first book I read at the jail caused me. I began to devour it at night, when the doors were closed, and read it till the break of day. It was a number of a review, and it seemed to me like a messenger from the other world. As I read, my life before the prison days seemed to rise up before me in sharp definition, as of some existence independent of my own, which another soul had had. Then I tried to get some clear idea of my relation to current events and things; whether my arrears of knowledge and experience were too great to make up; whether the men and women out of doors had lived and gone through many things and great during the time I was away from them; and great was my desire to thoroughly understand what was _now_ going on, _now_ that I could know something about it all at last. All the words I read were as palpable things, which I wanted rather to feel sensibly than get mere meaning out of; I tried to see more in the text than _could_ be there. I imagined some mysterious meanings that _must_ be in them, and tried at every page to see allusions to the past, with which my mind was familiar, whether they were there or not; at every turn of the leaf I sought for traces of what had deeply moved people before the days of my bondage; and deep was my dejection when it was forced on my mind that a new state of things had arisen; a new life, among my kind, which was alien to my knowledge and my sentiments. I felt as if I was a straggler, left behind and lost in the onward march of mankind. Yes, there were indeed arrears, if the word is not too weak. For the truth is, that another generation had come up, and I knew it not, and it knew not me. At the foot of one article I saw the name of one who had been dear to me; with what avidity I flung myself on _that_ paper! But the other names were nearly all new to me; new workers had come upon the scene, and I was eager to know their doings and themselves. It made me feel nearly desperate to have so few books, and to know how hard it would be to get more. At an earlier date, in the old Major's time, it was a dangerous thing indeed to bring books into the jail. If one was found when the whole place was searched, as was regularly done, great was the disturbance, and no efforts were spared to find out how they got in, and who had helped in the offence. I did not want to be subjected to insulting scrutiny, and, if I had, it would have been useless. I _had_ to live without books, and did, shut up in myself, tormenting myself with many a question and problem on which I had no means of throwing any light. But I can _never_ tell it all. It was in winter that I came in, so in winter I was to leave, on the anniversary-day. Oh, with what impatience did I look forward to the thrice-blessed winter! How gladly did I see the summer die out, the leaves turn yellow on the trees, the grass turn dry over the wide steppe! Summer is gone at last! the winds of autumn howl and groan, the first snow falls in whirling flakes. The winter, so long, long-prayed for, is come, come at last. Oh, how the heart beats with the thought that freedom was really, at last, at last, close at hand. Yet it was strange, as the time of times, the day of days, grew nearer and nearer, so did my soul grow quieter and quieter. I was annoyed at myself, reproached myself even with being cold, indifferent. Many of the convicts, as I met them in the court-yard when the day's work was done, used to get out, and talk with me to wish me joy. "Ah, little Father Alexander Petrovitch, you'll soon be out now! And here you'll leave us poor devils behind!" "Well, Mertynof, have you long to wait still?" I asked the man who spoke. "I! Oh, good Lord, I've seven years of it yet to weary through." Then the man sighed with a far-away, wandering look, as if he was gazing into those intolerable days to come.... Yes, many of my companions congratulated me in a way that showed they really felt what they said. I saw, too, that there was more disposition to meet me as man to man, they drew nearer to me as I was to leave them; the halo of freedom began to surround me, and caring for that they cared more for me. It was in this spirit they bade me farewell. K--schniski, a young Polish noble, a sweet and amiable person, was very fond, about this time, of walking in the court-yard with me. The stifling nights in the barracks did him much harm, so he tried his best to keep his health by getting all the exercise and fresh air he could. "I am looking forward impatiently to the day when _you_ will be set free," he said with a smile one day, "for when you go I shall _realise_ that I have just one year more of it to undergo." Need I say what I can yet not help saying, that freedom in idea always seemed to us who were there something _more_ free than it ever can be in reality? That was because our fancy was always dwelling upon it. Prisoners always exaggerate when they think of freedom and look on a free man; we did certainly; the poorest servant of one of the officers there seemed a sort of king to us, everything we could imagine in a free man, compared with ourselves at least; he had no irons on his limbs, his head was not shaven, he could go where and when he liked, with no soldiers to watch and escort him. The day before I was set free, as night fell I went _for the last time_ all through and all round the prison. How many a thousand times had I made the circuit of those palisades during those ten years! There, at the rear of the barracks, had I gone to and fro during the whole of that first year, a solitary, despairing man. I remember how I used to reckon up the days I had still to pass there--thousands, thousands! God! how long ago it seemed. There's the corner where the poor prisoned eagle wasted away; Petroff used often to come to me at that place. It seemed as if the man would never leave my side now; he would place himself by my side and walk along without ever saying a word, as though he knew all my thoughts as well as myself, and there was always a strange, inexplicable sort of wondering look on the man's face. How many a mental farewell did I take of the black, squared beams in our barracks! Ah, me! How much joyless youth, how much strength for which use there was none, was buried, lost in those walls!--youth and strength of which the world might surely have made _some_ use. For I must speak my thoughts as to this: the hapless fellows there were perhaps the strongest, and, in one way or another, the most gifted of our people. There was all that strength of body and of mind lost, hopelessly lost. Whose fault is that? Yes; whose fault _is_ that? The next day, at an early hour, before the men were mustered for work, I went through all the barracks to bid the men a last farewell. Many a vigorous, horny hand was held out to me with right good-will. Some grasped and shook my hand as though all their hearts went with the act; but these were the more generous souls. Most of the poor fellows seemed so much to feel that, for them, I was already a man changed by what was coming, that they could feel scarce anything else. They knew that I had friends in the town, that I was going away at once to _gentlemen_, that I should sit at their table as their equal. This the poor fellows felt; and, although they did their best as they took my hand, that hand could not be the hand of an equal. No; I, too, was a gentleman now. Some turned their backs on me, and made no reply to my parting words. I think, too, that I saw looks of aversion on some faces. The drum beat; all the convicts went to their work; and I was left to myself. Souchiloff had got up before everybody that morning, and now set himself tremblingly to the task of getting ready for me a last cup of tea. Poor Souchiloff! How he cried when I gave him my clothes, my shirts, my trouser-straps, and some money. "'Tain't that, 'tain't that," he said, and he bit his trembling lips, "it's that I am going to lose you, Alexander Petrovitch! What _shall_ I do without you?" There was Akim Akimitch, too; him, also, I bade farewell. "Your turn to go will come soon, I pray," said I. "Ah, no! I shall remain here long, long, very long yet," he just managed to say, as he pressed my hand. I threw myself on his neck; we kissed. Ten minutes after the convicts had gone out, my companion and myself left the jail _for ever_. We went to the blacksmith's shop, where our irons were struck off. We had no armed escort, we went there attended by a single sub-officer. It was convicts who struck off our irons in the engineers' workshop. I let them do it for my friend first, then went to the anvil myself. The smiths made me turn round, seized my leg, and stretched it on the anvil. Then they went about the business methodically, as though they wanted to make a very neat job of it indeed. "The rivet, man, turn the rivet first," I heard the master smith say; "there, so, so. Now, a stroke of the hammer!" The irons fell. I lifted them up. Some strange impulse made me long to have them in my hands for one last time. I couldn't realise that, only a moment before, they had been on my limbs. "Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!" said the convicts in their broken voices; but they seemed pleased as they said it. Yes, farewell! Liberty! New life! Resurrection from the dead! Unspeakable moment! THE END THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH 60086 ---- [Illustration: Book Cover] [Illustration: MAP TO ACCOMPANY "THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE."] [Illustration] THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY IN EUROPEAN AND ASIATIC RUSSIA, WITH ACCOUNTS OF A TOUR ACROSS SIBERIA VOYAGES ON THE AMOOR, VOLGA, AND OTHER RIVERS, A VISIT TO CENTRAL ASIA, TRAVELS AMONG THE EXILES, AND A HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE EMPIRE FROM ITS FOUNDATION TO THE PRESENT TIME By THOMAS W. KNOX AUTHOR OF "THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE FAR EAST" "THE YOUNG NIMRODS" ETC. Illustrated NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1887 By THOMAS W. KNOX. * * * * * THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE FAR EAST. Five Volumes. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.00 each. The volumes sold separately. Each volume complete in itself. I. ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY TO JAPAN AND CHINA. II. ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY TO SIAM AND JAVA. With Descriptions or Cochin-China, Cambodia, Sumatra, and the Malay Archipelago. III. ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY TO CEYLON AND INDIA. With Descriptions of Borneo, the Philippine Islands, and Burmah. IV. ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY TO EGYPT AND PALESTINE. V. ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY THROUGH AFRICA. THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN SOUTH AMERICA. Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Brazil, Paraguay, Argentine Republic, and Chili; with Descriptions of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, and Voyages upon the Amazon and La Plata Rivers. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.00. THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE. Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey in European and Asiatic Russia, with Accounts of a Tour across Siberia, Voyages on the Amoor, Volga, and other Rivers, a Visit to Central Asia, Travels Among the Exiles, and a Historical Sketch of the Empire from its Foundation to the Present Time. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.00. THE VOYAGE OF THE "VIVIAN" TO THE NORTH POLE AND BEYOND. Adventures of Two Youths in the Open Polar Sea. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $2.50. HUNTING ADVENTURES ON LAND AND SEA. Two Volumes. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $2.50 each. The volumes sold separately. Each volume complete in itself. I. THE YOUNG NIMRODS IN NORTH AMERICA. II. THE YOUNG NIMRODS AROUND THE WORLD. * * * * * PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. _Any of the above volumes sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * Copyright, 1886, by HARPER & BROTHERS.--_All rights reserved._ PREFACE. In preparing this volume for the press, the author has followed very closely the plan adopted for "The Boy Travellers in the Far East," and also for his more recent work, "The Boy Travellers in South America." Accompanied by their versatile and accomplished mentor, Dr. Bronson, our young friends, Frank Bassett and Fred Bronson, journeyed from Vienna to Warsaw and St. Petersburg, and after an interesting sojourn in the latter city, proceeded to Moscow, the ancient capital of the Czars. From Moscow they went to Nijni Novgorod, to attend the great fair for which that city is famous, and thence descended the Volga to the Caspian Sea. On their way down the great river they visited the principal towns and cities along its banks, saw many strange people, and listened to numerous tales and legends concerning the races which make up the population of the great Muscovite Empire. They visited the recently developed petroleum fields of the Caspian, and, after crossing that inland sea, made a journey in Central Asia to study certain phases of the "Eastern Question," and learn something about the difficulties that have arisen between England and Russia. Afterwards they travelled in the Caucasus, visited the Crimea, and bade farewell to the Empire as they steamed away from Odessa. Concerning the parts of Russia that they were unable to visit they gathered much information, and altogether their notes, letters, and memoranda would make a portly volume. The author has been three times in the Russian Empire, and much of the country described by "The Boy Travellers" was seen and traversed by him. In his first journey he entered the Czar's dominions at Petropavlovsk in Kamtchatka, ascended the Amoor River through its entire navigable length, traversed Siberia from the Pacific Ocean to the Ural Mountains, and continuing thence to Kazan, Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Warsaw, left the protection of the Russian flag eleven thousand miles from where he first went beneath it. His second visit included the Crimea and other regions bordering the Black Sea, and his third was confined to Finland and other Baltic provinces. In addition to his personal observations in Russia, the author has drawn upon the works of others. Many books of Russian travel and history have been examined; some of them have been mentioned in the text of the narrative, but it has not been practicable to refer to all. Indebtedness is hereby acknowledged to the following books: "Free Russia," by Hepworth Dixon; "Turkestan" and "Life of Peter the Great," by Hon. Eugene Schuyler; "A Ride to Khiva," by Col. Fred Burnaby; "Campaigning on the Oxus, and the Fall of Khiva," by J. A. Macgahan; "Life of Peter the Great" and "Life of Genghis Khan," by Jacob Abbott; "The Siberian Overland Route," by Alexander Michie; "Tent-life in Siberia," by George Kennan; "Reindeer, Dogs, and Snow-shoes," by Richard J. Bush; "The Invasion of the Crimea," by A. W. Kinglake; "Fred Markham in Russia," by W. H. G. Kingston; "The Knout and the Russians," by G. De Lagny; "The Russians at the Gates of Herat" and "The Region of the Eternal Fire," by Charles Marvin; "Travels in the Regions of the Upper and Lower Amoor" and "Oriental and Western Siberia," by Thomas W. Atkinson; and "The Russians at Home," by Sutherland Edwards. The author has also drawn upon several articles in _Harper's Magazine_, including his own series describing his journey through Siberia. The publishers have kindly permitted the use of illustrations from their previous publications on the Russian Empire, in addition to those specially prepared for this book. As a result of their courtesy, the author has been able to present a "copiously illustrated" book, which is always a delight to the youthful eye. T.W.K. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PAGE DEPARTURE FROM VIENNA.--FRANK'S LETTER.--A FAREWELL PROMENADE.--FROM VIENNA TO CRACOW.--THE GREAT SALT-MINE OF WIELICZKA, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--CHURCHES AND PALACES UNDERGROUND.--VOYAGE ON A SUBTERRANEAN LAKE. 15 CHAPTER II. LEAVING CRACOW.--THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER.--THE POLICE AND THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.--RUSSIAN CENSORSHIP OF BOOKS AND PAPERS.--CATCHING A SMUGGLER.--FROM THE FRONTIER TO WARSAW.--SIGHTS AND INCIDENTS IN THE CAPITAL OF POLAND.--FROM WARSAW TO ST. PETERSBURG. 40 CHAPTER III. IN THE STREETS OF ST. PETERSBURG.--ISVOSHCHIKS AND DROSKIES.--COUNTING IN RUSSIAN.--PASSPORTS AND THEIR USES.--ON THE NEVSKI PROSPECT.--VISITING THE CHURCH OF KAZAN.--THE RUSSO-GREEK RELIGION.--UNFAVORABLE POSITION OF ST. PETERSBURG.--DANGER OF DESTRUCTION.--GREAT INUNDATION OF 1824.--STATUE OF PETER THE GREAT.--ADMIRALTY SQUARE.--THE SAILORS AND THE STATUE. 58 CHAPTER IV. DINNER IN A RUSSIAN RESTAURANT.--CABBAGE SOUP, FISH PIES, AND OTHER ODD DISHES.--THE "SAMOVAR" AND ITS USES.--RUSSIAN TEA-DRINKERS.--"JOLTAI CHAI."--ALEXANDER'S COLUMN.--FORTRESS OF STS. PETER AND PAUL.--IMPERIAL ASSASSINATIONS.--SKETCHES OF THE PEOPLE.--RUSSIAN POLICE AND THEIR WAYS. 76 CHAPTER V. NUMBER AND CHARACTER OF THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE.--PAN-SLAVIC UNION.--ST. ISAAC'S CHURCH: ITS HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION.--THE WINTER PALACE AND THE HERMITAGE.--SIGHTS IN THE PALACE.--CATHERINE'S RULES FOR HER RECEPTIONS.--JOHN PAUL JONES IN RUSSIA.--THE CROWN JEWELS AND THE ORLOFF DIAMOND.--ANECDOTES OF THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS.--RELICS OF PETER THE GREAT.--FROM PALACE TO PRISON.--TOMBS OF RUSSIA'S EMPERORS.--A MONUMENT AND AN ANECDOTE. 93 CHAPTER VI. THE GOSTINNA DVOR: ITS EXTENT AND CHARACTER.--PECULIARITY OF RUSSIAN SHOPPING.--CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--OLD-CLOTHES MARKET.--HAY-MARKET.--PIGEONS IN RUSSIAN CITIES.--FROZEN ANIMALS.--CHURCH AND MONASTERY OF ST. ALEXANDER NEVSKI.--A PERSIAN TRAIN.--A COFFIN OF SOLID SILVER.--THE SUMMER GARDEN.--SPEAKING TO THE EMPEROR.--KRILOFF AND HIS FABLES.--VISIT TO A RUSSIAN THEATRE.--"A LIFE FOR THE CZAR."--A RUSSIAN COMEDY. 110 CHAPTER VII. NEWSPAPERS IN RUSSIA: THEIR NUMBER, CHARACTER, AND INFLUENCE.--DIFFICULTIES OF EDITORIAL LIFE.--THE CENSORSHIP.--AN EXCURSION TO PETERHOF, ORANIENBAUM, AND CRONSTADT.--SIGHTS IN THE SUMMER PALACE.--CRONSTADT AND THE NAVAL STATION.--THE RUSSIAN NAVY.--THE RUSSIAN ARMY: ITS COMPOSITION AND NUMBERS.--THE COSSACKS.--ANECDOTES OF RUSSIAN MILITARY LIFE. 130 CHAPTER VIII. VISITING THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. PETERSBURG.--EDUCATION IN RUSSIA.--PRIMARY AND OTHER SCHOOLS.--THE SYSTEM OF INSTRUCTION.--RECENT PROGRESS IN EDUCATIONAL MATTERS.--UNIVERSITIES IN THE EMPIRE: THEIR NUMBER AND LOCATION.--RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.--TREATMENT OF THE JEWS.--THE ISLANDS OF THE NEVA, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--IN A "TRAKTIR."--BRIBERY AMONG RUSSIAN OFFICIALS. 150 CHAPTER IX. STUDIES OF ST. PETERSBURG.--MUJIKS.--"THE IMPERIAL NOSEGAY."--A SHORT HISTORY OF RUSSIAN SERFDOM: ITS ORIGIN, GROWTH, AND ABUSES.--EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS.--PRESENT CONDITION OF THE PEASANT CLASS.--SEEING THE EMPEROR.--HOW THE CZAR APPEARS IN PUBLIC.--PUBLIC AND SECRET POLICE: THEIR EXTRAORDINARY POWERS.--ANECDOTES OF POLICE SEVERITY.--RUSSIAN COURTS OF LAW. 172 CHAPTER X. WINTER IN RUSSIA.--FASHIONABLE AND OTHER FURS.--SLEIGHS AND SLEDGES.--NO SLEIGH-BELLS IN RUSSIAN CITIES.--OFFICIAL OPENING OF THE NEVA.--RUSSIAN ICE-HILLS.--"BUTTER-WEEK."--KISSING AT EASTER.--AN ACTIVE KISSING-TIME.--RUSSIAN STOVES AND BATHS.--EFFECTS OF SEVERE COLD.--THE STORY OF THE FROZEN NOSE.--HOW MEN ARE FROZEN TO DEATH. 193 CHAPTER XI. LEAVING ST. PETERSBURG.--NOVGOROD THE GREAT: ITS HISTORY AND TRADITIONS.--RURIK AND HIS SUCCESSORS.--BARBARITIES OF JOHN THE TERRIBLE.--EARLY HISTORY OF RUSSIA.--AN IMPERIAL BEAR-HUNT.--ORIGIN OF THE HOUSE OF ROMANOFF.--"A LIFE FOR THE CZAR."--RAILWAYS IN RUSSIA FROM NOVGOROD TO MOSCOW. 211 CHAPTER XII FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF MOSCOW.--UNDULATIONS OF THE GROUND.--IRREGULARITY OF THE BUILDINGS, AND THE CAUSE THEREOF.--NAPOLEON'S CAMPAIGN IN RUSSIA.--DISASTER AND RETREAT.--THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.--THE KREMLIN: ITS CHURCHES, TREASURES, AND HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS.--ANECDOTES OF RUSSIAN LIFE.--THE CHURCH OF ST. BASIL. 230 CHAPTER XIII. THE GREAT THEATRE OF MOSCOW.--OPERATIC PERFORMANCES.--THE KITAI GOROD AND GOSTINNA DVOR.--ROMANOFF HOUSE AND THE ROMANOFF FAMILY.--SKETCH OF THE RULERS OF RUSSIA.--ANECDOTES OF PETER THE GREAT AND OTHERS.--CHURCH OF THE SAVIOUR.--MOSQUES AND PAGODAS.--THE MUSEUM.--RIDING-SCHOOL.--SUHAREFF TOWER.--TRAKTIRS.--OLD BELIEVERS.--THE SPARROW HILLS AND THE SIMONOFF MONASTERY. 252 CHAPTER XIV. A VISIT TO THE TROITSKA MONASTERY, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--CURIOUS LEGENDS.--MONKS AT DINNER.--EUROPEAN FAIRS.--THE GREAT FAIR AT NIJNI NOVGOROD.--SIGHTS AND SCENES.--MININ'S TOMB AND TOWER.--DOWN THE VOLGA BY STEAMBOAT.--STEAM NAVIGATION ON THE GREAT RIVER.--KAZAN, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--THE ROUTE TO SIBERIA. 271 CHAPTER XV. AVATCHA BAY, IN KAMTCHATKA.--ATTACK UPON PETROPAVLOVSK BY THE ALLIED FLEET.--DOGS AND DOG-DRIVING.--RAPID TRAVELLING WITH A DOG-TEAM.--POPULATION AND RESOURCES OF KAMTCHATKA.--REINDEER AND THEIR USES.--THE AMOOR RIVER.--NATIVE TRIBES AND CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--TIGERS IN SIBERIA.--NAVIGATION OF THE AMOOR.--OVERLAND TRAVELLING IN SIBERIA.--RIDING IN A TARANTASSE.--A ROUGH ROAD.--AN AMUSING MISTAKE.--FROM STRATENSK TO NERTCHINSK.--GOLD-MINING IN SIBERIA. 289 CHAPTER XVI. THE EXILES OF SIBERIA.--THE DECEMBRISTS AND THEIR EXPERIENCE.--SOCIAL POSITION OF EXILES.--DIFFERENT CLASSES OF EXILES AND THEIR SENTENCES.--CRIMINALS AND POLITICALS.--DEGREES OF PUNISHMENT.--PERPETUAL COLONISTS.--HOW EXILES TRAVEL.--LODGING-HOUSES AND PRISONS.--CONVOYS.--THRILLING STORY OF AN ESCAPE FROM SIBERIA.--SECRET ROADS.--HOW PEASANTS TREAT THE EXILES.--PRISONERS IN CHAINS. 313 CHAPTER XVII. CHARACTER OF THE SIBERIAN POPULATION.--ABSENCE OF SERFDOM, AND ITS EFFECT.--A RUSSIAN FÊTE.--AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEASANTRY.--COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.--CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--WHIPPING A WIFE.--OVERLAND THROUGH SIBERIA AGAIN.--CHETAH AND THE BOURIATS.--IN A BOURIAT VILLAGE.--VERCKNE UDINSK.--SIBERIAN ROBBERS.--TEA-TRAINS AND TEA-TRADE.--KIACHTA.--LODGED BY THE POLICE.--TRADE BETWEEN RUSSIA AND CHINA. 334 CHAPTER XVIII. GENERAL ASPECTS OF MAI-MAI-CHIN.--DINNER WITH A CHINESE GOVERNOR.--A THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE.--LAKE BAIKAL: ITS REMARKABLE FEATURES.--A WONDERFUL RIDE.--IRKUTSK: ITS POPULATION, SIZE, AND PECULIARITIES.--SOCIAL GAYETIES.--PREPARATIONS FOR A LONG SLEIGH-RIDE.--LIST OF GARMENTS.--VARIETIES OF SLEIGHS.--FAREWELL TO IRKUTSK.--SLEIGHING INCIDENTS.--FOOD ON THE ROAD.--SIBERIAN MAILS.--ADVANTAGES OF WINTER TRAVELLING.--SLEIGHING ON BARE GROUND.--A SNOWLESS REGION.--KRASNOYARSK. 354 CHAPTER XIX. POSITION AND CHARACTER OF KRASNOYARSK.--A LESSON IN RUSSIAN PRONUNCIATION.--MARKET SCENE.--SIBERIAN TREES.--THE "OUKHABA."--A NEW SENSATION.--ROAD-FEVER AND ITS CAUSE.--AN EXCITING ADVENTURE WITH WOLVES.--HOW WOLVES ARE HUNTED.--FROM KRASNOYARSK TO TOMSK.--STEAM NAVIGATION IN SIBERIA.--BARNAOOL.--MINES OF THE ALTAI.--TIGERS AND TIGER STORIES.--THE "BOURAN."--ACROSS THE BARABA STEPPE.--TUMEN AND EKATERINEBURG.--FROM EUROPE TO ASIA.--PERM, KAZAN, AND NIJNI NOVGOROD.--END OF THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 377 CHAPTER XX. DOWN THE VOLGA AGAIN.--RUSSIAN RECEPTION CEREMONY.--SIMBIRSK, SAMARA, AND SARATOV.--GERMAN SETTLERS ON THE VOLGA.--DON COSSACKS.--ASTRACHAN.--CURIOUS POPULATION.--VOYAGE ON THE CASPIAN SEA.--THE CASPIAN PETROLEUM REGION.--TANK-STEAMERS.--INTERESTING FACTS AND FIGURES OF THE NEW PETROLIA.--PRESENT PRODUCT OF THE BAKU OIL-FIELDS.--EXCURSION TO BALAKHANI, AND VISIT TO THE OIL-WELLS.--TEMPLES OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.--ANTIQUITY OF THE CASPIAN PETROLEUM REGION.--MARCO POLO AND OTHER AUTHORITIES. 403 CHAPTER XXI. A GLANCE AT CENTRAL ASIA.--RUSSIAN CONQUEST IN TURKESTAN.--WAR AND DIPLOMACY AMONG THE KIRGHESE TRIBES.--RUSSIAN TAXES AND THEIR COLLECTION.--TURCOMAN AND KIRGHESE RAIDS.--PRISONERS SOLD INTO SLAVERY.--FORTIFIED VILLAGES AND TOWERS OF REFUGE.--COMMERCE IN TURKESTAN.--JEALOUSY OF FOREIGNERS.--TRAVELS OF VÁMBÉRY AND OTHERS.--VÁMBÉRY'S NARROW ESCAPE.--TURCOMAN CHARACTER.--PAYMENTS FOR HUMAN HEADS.--MARRIAGE CUSTOMS AMONG THE TURCOMANS.--EXTENT AND POPULATION OF CENTRAL ASIA. 428 CHAPTER XXII. FRANK AND FRED IN THE TURCOMAN COUNTRY.--THE TRANS-CASPIAN RAILWAY.--SKOBELEFF'S CAMPAIGN, AND THE CAPTURE OF GEOK TEPÉ.--ENGLISH JEALOUSY OF RUSSIAN ADVANCES.--RIVERS OF CENTRAL ASIA.--THE OXUS AND JAXARTES.--AGRICULTURE BY IRRIGATION.--KHIVA, SAMARCAND, AND BOKHARA.--A RIDE ON THE TRANS-CASPIAN RAILWAY.--STATISTICS OF THE LINE.--KIZIL ARVAT, ASKABAD, AND SARAKHS.--ROUTE TO HERAT AND INDIA.--TURCOMAN DEVASTATION.--THE AFGHAN BOUNDARY QUESTION.--HOW MERV WAS CAPTURED.--O'DONOVAN AND MACGAHAN: THEIR REMARKABLE JOURNEYS.--RAILWAY ROUTE FROM ENGLAND TO INDIA.--RETURN TO BAKU. 451 CHAPTER XXIII. BAKU TO TIFLIS.--THE CAPITAL OF THE CAUCASUS.--MOUNTAIN TRAVELLING.--CROSSING THE RANGE.--PETROLEUM LOCOMOTIVES.--BATOUM AND ITS IMPORTANCE.--TREBIZOND AND ERZEROOM.--SEBASTOPOL AND THE CRIMEA.--SHORT HISTORY OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.--RUSSO-TURKISH WAR OF 1877-78.--BATTLES IN THE CRIMEA AND SIEGE OF SEBASTOPOL.--VISITING THE MALAKOFF AND REDAN FORTS.--VIEW OF THE BATTLE-FIELDS.--CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA.--PRESENT CONDITION OF SEBASTOPOL.--ODESSA.--ARRIVAL AT CONSTANTINOPLE.--FRANK'S DREAM.--THE END. 480 ILLUSTRATIONS. Winter Scene in Russia _Frontispiece._ Fred's Reminder 15 St. Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna 16 View of the Palace of Cracow 17 Kosciusko, 1777 18 Kosciusko, 1817 19 Church of St Mary, Cracow 20 Polish Jew of high Rank 21 Polish Jews of the Middle Class 22 Our Guide in Costume 23 The Inspector-general 24 The Shaft 26 Descending the Shaft 27 Lamp-bearers 28 A Foot-path 29 An Underground Chapel 31 Men Cutting Salt in the Mine 32 Finishing the Columns 33 Subterranean Stables 34 A Mining Singer 35 "Glück-auf!" 36 Fête in the Grand Saloon of Entertainment 37 A Retired Director 38 Outer Wall of Cracow 40 Custom-house Formalities 41 Passport not Correct 42 In the Passport Bureau 43 Way Station on the Railway 45 Before Examination 46 After Examination 47 Scene on the Railway 48 Shutes for loading Coal on the Railway 49 Polish National Costumes 50 Peasant's Farm-house 51 Royal Palace at Warsaw 52 Shrine at a Gate-way 53 Lake in the Park 54 A Business Man of Warsaw 55 In St. Petersburg 56 Isvoshchiks in Winter 59 Drosky Drivers 60 Sledge of a high Official 63 Russian Workmen on their way Home 65 Russian Officer with Decorations 66 A Russian Priest 68 Convent of Solovetsk in the Frozen Sea 71 The Inundation of 1824 72 Statue of Peter the Great 73 Improvising a Statue 75 Tea-sellers in the Streets 77 Russian Restaurant at the Paris Exposition 78 An Out-door Tea-party 79 Russian Mujiks drinking Tea 81 Plant from which Yellow Tea is made 82 Column in Memory of Alexander I. 83 Peter the Great 85 Assassination of Peter III. 87 Paul I. 88 Russian and Finn 89 Dvornik and Postman 90 Lodgings at the Frontier 91 Ordered to leave Russia 92 Finland Peasants in Holiday Costume 94 Inhabitants of Southern Russia 95 St. Isaac's Church and Admiralty Square 96 Priest of the Church of St. Isaac 98 Catherine II. of Russia 99 Reception of John Paul Jones by the Empress Catherine 101 Russian Attack on the Turkish Galley 103 The Orloff Diamond 104 Nicholas I. 105 Peter III. 106 Circassian Arms as Trophies of Battle 107 Statue of Nicholas I. 108 Politeness in the Market-place 111 Importuning a Visitor 113 Frozen Animals in the Market 114 Market for old Clothes 116 Pigeons in a Russian City 118 Persian Horses presented by the Shah 119 Russian Peasant Girl 120 Russian Nurse-maid and Children 121 Some of Kriloff's Friends 122 Kriloff's Characters in Convention 123 The Fox as a Law-giver 126 One of Kriloff's Characters 127 Closing Scene in a Russian Play 128 Kriloff's Statue in the Summer Garden, St. Petersburg 129 Press-room of a Daily Newspaper 131 Interviewing an Editor 132 Prince Gortchakoff 133 Cabinet and Chair in the Palace 135 Illumination in a Russian Park 136 Tapestry and Fire Utensils at Peterhof 137 Door-way of Peter's House at Zaandam, Holland 138 A Student of Navigation 139 Steam Frigate near Cronstadt 140 Frigate under Sail and Steam 141 The _Dreadnought_--type of the _Peter the Great_ 142 The Russian Army--Regular Troops 143 Cossack Lancers and Russian Guard-house 144 The Russian Army--Irregular Troops 146 Grand-duke Michael 148 Iron-clad Steamer of the Baltic Fleet 149 Little Folks at School 151 Learning to Weave 152 Mineral Cabinet in the University 153 Parlor in a High-school for Women 155 Private Room of a wealthy Student 156 Lower Recitation-room 157 One of the Professors 158 Descending a Shaft 159 Galleries in a Mine 160 In the Library 161 A College Dormitory 162 Jewish Burial-ground 163 Clothes-dealer of Moscow 164 A Russian Troika 165 A Villa on the Island 166 A Russian Family 167 Culprit Street-sweepers 169 A Business Transaction 170 Peter the Great dressed for Battle 171 An Imperial Nosegay 173 Mujiks playing Cards 174 Peasant's House in Southern Russia 176 Peasants' Huts 178 Esthonian Peasants 179 Alexander II., the Liberator of the Serfs 181 Alexander III., Emperor of Russia 182 Battle between Russians and Circassians 184 Schamyl's Village in the Caucasus 185 The Empress Marie Féodorovna, Wife of Alexander III. 186 Russian Peasants at their Recreation 187 "Who is the Spy?" 189 Officers sitting in Judgment 191 Russian Grand-duke and Grand-duchess 192 Fur-bearing Seals 194 Sea-otter 195 The Beaver 195 The Ermine 196 The Raccoon 196 Russian Ice-hills 198 Soldiers off Duty--Butter-week 199 The Easter Kiss--agreeable 200 The Easter Kiss--in the Family 200 The Easter Kiss--difficult 201 The Easter Kiss--disagreeable 201 The Emperor's Easter Kiss 203 Peasant Girl in Winter Dress 204 A Bath in the East 206 Russian Street Scene in Winter 208 Lost in a Snow-storm 210 Workmen of Novgorod--Glazier, Painter, and Carpenters 212 An Old Norse Chief 213 View on the Steppe 216 Ivan the Terrible 217 Alexis Michailovitch, Father of Peter the Great 219 Michael Feodorovitch, First Czar of the Romanoff Family 220 Too near to be pleasant 221 Wolf attacking its Hunters 222 Old Picture in the Church 224 A Bishop of the Greek Church 225 Millennial Monument at Novgorod 227 Russian Boats 228 Portrait of Catherine II. in the Kremlin Collection 229 Street Scene in Moscow 231 Bivouacking in the Snow 232 Battle between French and Russians 233 Napoleon Retreating from Moscow 235 Alexander I. 236 View in the Kremlin 237 A Prisoner ordered to Execution 238 The Kremlin of Moscow 239 The Great Bell underground 240 Visiting the Great Bell 241 Empress Anne 242 The Empress Elizabeth 243 Coronation of Alexander III. 245 Peter II. 246 Bishop in his Robes 247 Great Gun at Moscow 249 The Cathedral at Moscow 250 Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow 251 Dress of Peasants--Scene from a Russian Opera 253 A Dressing-room of the Opera-house 254 Working the Ship in "L'Africaine" 255 Minin-Pojarsky Monument 257 Peter's Escape from Assassination 258 Peter the Great as Executioner 260 Catherine I. 261 Catherine II. 263 Grand-duke Nicholas Alexandrovitch 264 Skinned and Stuffed Man 266 Russian Beggars 267 Tartar Coffee-house in Southern Russia 269 Gallery in the Palace 270 Copy of Picture in the Monastery 272 Window in Church of the Trinity 273 Pity the Poor 274 Curious Agate at Troitska 275 Paper-knife from Troitska--St. Sergius and the Bear 276 Specimens of Ecclesiastical Painting on Glass 277 Russian Cooper's Shop and Dwelling 278 Nijni Novgorod during the Fair 280 Nijni Novgorod after the Fair 281 Tartar Merchant 282 Returning from the Fair 283 Launching a Russian Barge 285 Tartar Village near the Volga 286 Tartar Baker's Shop 287 A Siberian Village 289 Petropavlovsk, Kamtchatka.--Mount Avatcha in Background 290 A Herd of Reindeer 291 Dog teams and Reindeer 293 Light-house at Ghijigha 294 Ermine-trap 295 Interior of a Native House 295 The Reindeer 296 Fish-market at Nicolayevsk 297 Scenery on the Amoor 298 Gilyak Woman 299 Gilyak Man 299 Native Boat--Amoor River 300 Goldee Children 300 A Goldee Man and Woman 301 Inauguration of Genghis Khan 302 Junction of the Argoon and Shilka to form the Amoor 303 Scene in a Posting Station 304 A Tarantasse 306 Changing Horses at a Siberian Station 307 The Right of Way in Russia 309 Getting out of Difficulty 310 Valley of the Amoor above Ouk-se-me 312 Interior of an Exile's Hut 314 Exiles passing through a Village 315 A Town built by Exiles 317 Banished for Five Years 318 Banished for Three Years 318 Colonist's Village in Winter 319 Exiles leaving Moscow 321 Tagilsk, centre of Iron-mines of Siberia 322 A Siberian Valley 323 Two Exiled Friends Meeting 325 Escaping Exiles crossing a Stream 326 Ivanoff's Cave 327 Exiles among the Mountains 329 Siberian Peasants 331 Siberian Milk-women 332 Siberia in Summer 333 An Exile Peasant and his Friends 335 A Siberian Landscape 336 Girls Playing at Skakiet 337 A Village Festival 338 Russian Peasant Women 340 Making Calls after a Wedding 342 Ceremony after a Peasant's Wedding 343 The Mountains near Chetah 345 A Bouriat Village 346 A Wandering Priest 347 Crossing the Selenga 349 Finding Lodgings at Kiachta 351 Chinese Cash from Mai-mai-chin 352 Articles of Russian Manufacture 353 Scene in a Chinese Temple 354 Theatre at Mai-mai-chin 355 The Tiger 356 A Natural Arch on Lake Baikal 357 Caverns on Lake Baikal 358 Part of Irkutsk 359 View of the Principal Square in Irkutsk 360 Dressed for the Road 362 A Vashok 363 My Kibitka 364 Farewell to Irkutsk 365 Work of the Frost-king 367 Interior of a Russian Inn 369 Mail-driver and Guard 370 Distant View of a Siberian Village 371 Soldiers in Siberian Ferry-boats 373 View of Krasnoyarsk from the opposite Bank of the Yenisei 374 A Dangerous Ride 376 Beggar at a Siberian Station 378 Policeman at Krasnoyarsk 380 Hills near a Siberian River 381 Jumping an "Oukhaba" 382 Wolves Attacking a Buffalo 384 A Siberian Wolf 385 Summer and Winter in Russia 386 Village on a Russian Estate 388 A Slight Mishap 389 Summer View near Barnaool 391 Attacked by a Tiger 393 Bearcoots and Wolves 394 The Steppe in Summer 395 Specimen of Rock-crystal 397 Monument at the Boundary 397 Western Slope of the Ural Mountains 398 Descending a Hill-side Road 400 Baptizing through the Ice 401 End of the Sleigh-ride 402 Offering of the Villagers 404 Shoeing an Ox 406 Knife-whip 407 Armenian Bishop of Astrachan 408 A Tartar Khan 409 Tartar Postilions 410 Tartar Palaces in Southern Russia 411 Gypsy Family at Astrachan 412 An Oil-steamer on the Caspian Sea 413 Tanks at a Storage Depot 413 View in an Oil Region 414 Bits for Drilling Wells 415 A Spouting Well 416 Derrick and Tanks in the American Oil Region 417 An Oil Refinery with Tank Cars 419 Tartar Camel-cart at Baku 420 Ancient Mound near the Caspian Sea 421 Curious Rock Formations 422 Modern Fire-worshippers--Parsee Lady and Daughter 423 A Burning Tank 425 A Fall in Oil 426 A Rise in Oil 426 Camp Scene near the Altai Mountains 429 A Kalmuck Priest 430 Scene on the Edge of the Kirghese Steppe 431 Kirghese Group 432 Kirghese Chief and Family 433 Caravan in Russian Territory 434 Kirghese Raid on a Hostile Tribe 436 Lasgird--A Fortified Village in Northern Persia 438 Tower of Refuge 439 Framework of Turcoman Tent 440 The Tent Covered 440 Interior of Tent 441 Vámbéry's Reception by Turcoman Chief on the Caspian Shore 442 Receiving Payment for Human Heads--Khiva 443 Turcoman Trophy--A Russian Head 445 Kökbüri--A Race for a Bride 447 View of the Citadel of Khiva 448 An Ozbek Head 449 Map showing the Relations of Russia and England in the East 451 Sand-storm in the Desert 452 Turcoman Court of Justice 453 Kirghese Tomb 454 Charge of Russian Cavalry against Turcomans 455 Russian Army on the Turcoman Steppes 457 Winter Camp in Turcomania 459 Turcoman Irrigating Wheel 460 Scene at a Ferry on the Oxus 461 Map of the Russo-Afghan Region 462 Turcoman Woman Spinning 464 Village of Turcoman Tents 465 The New Russo-Afghan Frontier 466 Old Sarakhs 468 Sarik Turcoman Woman 469 Pul-i-Khisti and Ak Tapa 470 Penjdeh 471 Colonel Alikhanoff 472 The Great Highway of Central Asia 473 Turcoman Farm-yard 475 Map of Turkestan, showing Route of Trans-Caspian Railway 476 Crossing a River in Central Asia 478 A Native Traveller 479 Looking down on the Steppe 481 View of Tiflis 483 The Pass of Dariel, Caucasus 485 Governor-general of the Caucasus 486 Ruined Fortress in the Caucasus 487 Ruined Church near Batoum 488 Quarantine Harbor, Trebizond 489 View of Erzeroom 490 Turkish Authority 492 View of Sebastopol 495 Ruins of the Malakoff, Sebastopol 496 Russian Carpenters at Work 498 Cossacks and Chasseurs 499 British Soldiers in Camp 501 Alfred Tennyson 502 A Broken Tarantasse 503 The Bosporus 504 Map to accompany the Boy Travellers in the Russian Empire _Front Cover._ Map showing the Russian Empire Routes as Described by the Boy Travellers _Back Cover._ THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE. CHAPTER I. DEPARTURE FROM VIENNA.--FRANK'S LETTER.--A FAREWELL PROMENADE.--FROM VIENNA TO CRACOW.--THE GREAT SALT-MINE OF WIELICZKA, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--CHURCHES AND PALACES UNDERGROUND.--VOYAGE ON A SUBTERRANEAN LAKE. "Here are the passports at last." "Are you sure they are quite in order for our journey?" "Yes, entirely so," was the reply; "the Secretary of Legation examined them carefully, and said we should have no trouble at the frontier." "Well, then," a cheery voice responded, "we have nothing more to do until the departure of the train. Five minutes will complete the packing of our baggage, and the hotel bill is all settled. I am going for a walk through the Graben, and will be back in an hour." So saying, our old acquaintance, Doctor Bronson, left his room in the Grand Hotel in Vienna and disappeared down the stairway. He was followed, a few minutes later, by his nephew, Fred Bronson, who had just returned from a promenade, during which he had visited the American Legation to obtain the passports which were the subject of the dialogue just recorded. At the door of the hotel he was joined by his cousin, Frank Bassett. The latter proposed a farewell visit to the Church of St. Stephen, and also a short stroll in the Graben, where he wished to make a trifling purchase. Fred assented, and they started at once. [Illustration: FRED'S REMINDER.] They had not gone far before Fred perceived at a window the face of a girl busily engaged in writing. He paused a moment, and then suggested to Frank that he wished to return to the hotel in time to write a letter to his sister before the closing of the mail. "I really believe," said he, "that I should have neglected Mary this week if I had not been reminded by that girl in the window and her occupation." Frank laughed as he rejoined that he had never yet known his cousin to forget his duty, and it would have been pretty sure to occur to him that he owed his sister a letter before it was too late for writing it. [Illustration: ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL, VIENNA.] They made a hasty visit to the church, which is by far the finest religious edifice in Vienna, and may be said to stand in the very heart of the city. Fred had previously made a note of the fact that the church is more than seven hundred years old, and has been rebuilt, altered, and enlarged so many times that not much of the original structure remains. On the first day of their stay in Vienna the youths had climbed to the top of the building and ascended the spire, from which they had a magnificent view of the city and the country which surrounds it. The windings of the Danube are visible for many miles, and there are guides ready at hand to point out the battle-fields of Wagram, Lobau, and Essling. Our young friends had a good-natured discussion about the height of the spire of St. Stephen's; Frank claimed that his guide-book gave the distance from the ground to the top of the cross four hundred and fifty-three feet, while Fred contended, on the authority of another guide-book, that it was four hundred and sixty-five feet. Authorities differ considerably as to the exact height of this famous spire, which does not appear to have received a careful measurement for a good many years. From the church the youths went to the Graben, the famous street where idlers love to congregate on pleasant afternoons, and then they returned to the hotel. Fred devoted himself to the promised letter to his sister. With his permission we will look over his shoulder as he writes, and from the closing paragraph learn the present destination of our old friends with whom we have travelled in other lands.[1] [1] "The Boy Travellers in the Far East" (five volumes) and "The Boy Travellers in South America" (one volume). Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey to and through Japan, China, Siam, Java, Ceylon, India, Egypt, Palestine, Central Africa, Peru, Bolivia, Chili, Brazil, and the Argentine Republic. New York. Harper & Brothers. "We have been here a week, and like Vienna very much, but are quite willing to leave the city for the interesting tour we have planned. We start this evening by the Northern Railway for a journey to and through Russia; our first stopping-place will be at the nearest point on the railway for reaching the famous salt-mines of Wieliczka. You must pronounce it We-_litch_-ka, with the accent on the second syllable. I'll write you from there; or, if I don't have time to do so at the mines, will send you a letter from the first city where we stop for more than a single day. We have just had our passports indorsed by the Russian minister for Austria--a very necessary proceeding, as it is impossible to get into Russia without these documents. Until I next write you, good-by." The travellers arrived at the great Northern Railway station of Vienna in ample season to take their tickets and attend to the registration of their baggage. The train carried them swiftly to Cracow--a city which has had a prominent place in Polish annals. It was the scene of several battles, and was for a long time the capital of the ancient kingdom of Poland. Frank made the following memoranda in his note-book: [Illustration: VIEW OF THE PALACE OF CRACOW.] "Cracow is a city of about fifty thousand inhabitants, of whom nearly one-third are Israelites. It stands on the left bank of the Vistula, on a beautiful plain surrounded by hills which rise in the form of an amphitheatre. In the old part of the city the streets are narrow and dark, and cannot be praised for their cleanliness; but the new part, which lies outside the ancient defences, is quite attractive. The palace is on the bank of the river, and was once very pretty. The Austrians have converted it into a military barrack, after stripping it of all its ornaments, so that it is now hardly worth seeing. There are many fine churches in Cracow, but we have only had time to visit one of them--the cathedral. "In the cathedral we saw the tombs of many of the men whose names are famous in Polish history. Polish kings and queens almost by the dozen are buried here, and there is a fine monument to the memory of St. Stanislaus. His remains are preserved in a silver coffin, and are the object of reverence on the part of those who still dream of the ultimate liberation of Poland, and its restoration to its old place among the kingdoms of the world. [Illustration: KOSCIUSKO, 1777.] "We drove around the principal streets of Cracow, and then out to the tumulus erected to the memory of the Polish patriot, Kosciusko. You remember the lines in our school reader, "'Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell.' "We were particularly desirous to see this mound. It was made of earth brought from all the patriotic battle-fields of Poland at an enormous expense, which was largely borne by the people of Cracow. The monument is altogether one hundred and fifty feet high, and is just inside the line of fortifications which have been erected around the city. The Austrians say these fortifications are intended to keep out the Russians; but it is just as likely that they are intended to keep the Poles from making one of the insurrections for which they have shown so great an inclination during the past two or three centuries. [Illustration: KOSCIUSKO, 1817.] "As we contemplated the monument to the famous soldier of Poland, we remembered his services during our Revolutionary war. Kosciusko entered the American army in 1776 as an officer of engineers, and remained with General Washington until the close of the war. He planned the fortified camp near Saratoga, and also the works at West Point. When our independence was achieved he returned to Poland, and after fighting for several years in the cause of his country, he made a brief visit to America, where he received much distinction. Then he returned again to Europe, lived for a time in France, and afterwards in Switzerland, where he died in 1817. The monument we have just visited does not cover his grave, as he was buried with much ceremony in the Cathedral of Cracow." "Why don't you say something about the Jewish quarter of Cracow," said Fred, when Frank read what he had written, and which we have given above. "I'll leave that for you," was the reply. "You may write the description while I make some sketches." "I'm agreed," responded Fred. "Let's go over the ground together and pick out what is the most interesting." Away they went, leaving Doctor Bronson with a gentleman with whom he had formed an acquaintance during their ride from the railway to the hotel. The Doctor was not partial to a walk in the Jews' quarter, and said he was willing to take his knowledge of it at second-hand. [Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. MARY, CRACOW.] On their way thither the youths stopped a few minutes to look at the Church of St. Mary, which was built in 1276, and is regarded as a fine specimen of Gothic architecture. It is at one side of the market-place, and presents a picturesque appearance as the beholder stands in front of it. The Jews' quarter is on the opposite side of the river from the principal part of the city, and is reached by a bridge over the Vistula. At every step the youths were beset by beggars. They had taken a guide from the hotel, under the stipulation that he should not permit the beggars to annoy them, but they soon found it would be impossible to secure immunity from attack without a cordon of at least a dozen guides. Frank pronounced the beggars of Cracow the most forlorn he had ever seen, and Fred thought they were more numerous in proportion to the population than in any other city, with the possible exception of Naples. Their ragged and starved condition indicated that their distress was real, and more than once our young friends regretted having brought themselves face to face with so much misery that they were powerless to relieve. [Illustration: POLISH JEW OF HIGH RANK.] Frank remarked that there was a similarity of dress among the Jews of Cracow, as they all wore long caftans, or robes, reaching nearly to the heels. The wealthy Jews wear robes of silk, with fur caps or turbans, while the poorer ones must content themselves with cheaper material, according to their ability. The guide told the youths that the men of rank would not surround their waists with girdles as did the humbler Jews, and that sometimes the robes of the rich were lined with sable, at a cost of many hundreds of dollars. [Illustration: POLISH JEWS OF THE MIDDLE CLASS.] Fred carefully noted the information obtained while Frank made the sketches he had promised to produce. They are by no means unlike the sketches that were made by another American traveller (Mr. J. Ross Browne), who visited Cracow several years before the journey of our friends. "But there's one thing we can't sketch, and can't describe in writing," said Fred, "and that's the dirt in the streets of this Jews' quarter of Cracow. If Doctor Bronson knew of it I don't wonder he declined to come with us. No attempt is made to keep the place clean, and it seems a pity that the authorities do not force the people into better ways. It's as bad as any part of Canton or Peking, and that's saying a great deal. I wonder they don't die of cholera, and leave the place without inhabitants." In spite of all sorts of oppression, the Jews of Cracow preserve their distinctiveness, and there are no more devout religionists in the world than this people. The greater part of the commerce of the city is in their hands, and they are said to have a vast amount of wealth in their possession. That they have a large share of business was noticed by Fred, who said that from the moment they alighted from the train at the railway-station they were pestered by peddlers, guides, money-changers, runners for shops, beggars, and all sorts of importunate people from the quarter of the city over the Vistula. An hour in the Jews' quarter gratified their curiosity, and they returned to the hotel. There is a line of railway to the salt-mines, but our friends preferred to go in a carriage, as it would afford a better view of the country, and enable them to arrange the time to suit themselves. The distance is about nine miles, and the road is well kept, so that they reached the mines in little more than an hour from the time of leaving the hotel. The road is through an undulating country, which is prettily dotted with farms, together with the summer residences of some of the wealthier inhabitants of Cracow. [Illustration: OUR GUIDE IN COSTUME.] On reaching the mines they went immediately to the offices, where it was necessary to obtain permission to descend into the earth. These offices are in an old castle formerly belonging to one of the native princes, but long ago turned into its present practical uses. Our friends were accompanied by a commissioner from the hotel where they were lodged in Cracow; he was a dignified individual, who claimed descent from one of the noble families of Poland, and the solemnity of his visage was increased by a huge pair of spectacles that spanned his nose. Frank remarked that spectacles were in fashion at Wieliczka, as at least half the officials connected with the management of the salt-mines were ornamented with these aids to vision. [Illustration: THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL.] A spectacled clerk entered the names of the visitors in a register kept for the purpose, and issued the tickets permitting them to enter the mines. Armed with their tickets, they were conducted to a building close to the entrance of one of the mines, and ushered into the presence of the inspector-general of the works. He was also a wearer of spectacles, and the rotundity of his figure indicated that the air and food of the place had not injured him. "The inspector-general received us politely--in fact everybody about the place was polite enough for the most fastidious taste," said Frank in his note-book--"and after a short conversation he called our attention to the robes which had been worn by imperial and royal visitors to the mines. The robes are richly embroidered, and every one bears a label telling when and by whom it was worn. The inspector-general treated the garments with almost as much reverence as he would have shown to the personages named on the labels. We realized that it was proper to regard them with respect, if we wished to have the good-will of this important official, and therefore we appeared to be dumb with amazement as he went through the list. When the examination was ended we were provided with garments for the descent. Evidently we were not regarded with the same awe as were the kings and emperors that had preceded us, as our robes were of a very common sort. They were like dressing-gowns, and reached nearly to our heels, and our heads were covered with small woollen caps. I do not believe they were labelled with our names and kept in glass cases after our departure. "I made a sketch of our guide after he was arrayed in his underground costume and ready to start. Fred sketched the inspector-general while the latter was talking to the Doctor. The portrait isn't a bad one, but I think he has exaggerated somewhat the rotund figure of the affable official. "From the office we went to the entrance of one of the shafts. It is in a large building, which contains the hoisting apparatus, and is also used as a storehouse. Sacks and barrels of salt were piled there awaiting transportation to market, and in front of the building there were half a dozen wagons receiving the loads which they were to take to the railway-station. The hoisting apparatus is an enormous wheel turned by horse-power; the horses walk around in a circle, as in the old-fashioned cider-mill of the Northern States, or the primitive cotton-gin of the South. Our guide said there were more than twenty of these shafts, and there was also a stairway, cut in the solid earth and salt, extending to the bottom of the mine. We had proposed to descend by the stairway, but the commissioner strenuously advised against our doing so. He said the way was dark and the steps were slippery, as they were wet in many places from the water trickling through the earth. His arguments appeared reasonable, and so we went by the shaft. "The rope winds around a drum on the shaft supporting the wheel, and then passes through a pulley directly over the place where we were to descend. The rope is fully two inches in diameter, and was said to be capable of bearing ten times the weight that can ever be placed upon it in ordinary use. It is examined every morning, and at least once a week it is tested with a load of at least four times that which it ordinarily carries. When it shows any sign of wear it is renewed; and judging from all we could see, the managers take every precaution against accidents. "Smaller ropes attached to the main one have seats at the ends. There are two clusters of these ropes, about twenty feet apart, the lower one being intended for the guides and lamp-bearers, and the upper for visitors and officials. Six of us were seated in the upper group. It included our party of four and two subordinate officials, who accompanied us on our journey and received fees on our return; but I suppose they would scorn to be called guides. "There is a heavy trap-door over the mouth of the shaft, and the rope plays freely through it. The guides and lamp-bearers took their places at the end of the rope; then the door was opened and they were lowered down, and the door closed above them. This brought the upper cluster of ropes in position for us to take our places, which we did under the direction of the officials who accompanied us. When all was ready the signal was given, the trap-door was opened once more, and we began our downward journey into the earth. [Illustration: THE SHAFT.] "As the trap-door closed above us, I confess to a rather uncanny feeling. Below us gleamed the lights in the hands of the lamp-bearers, but above there was a darkness that seemed as though it might be felt, or sliced off with a knife. Nobody spoke, and the attention of all seemed to be directed to hanging on to the rope. Of course the uppermost question in everybody's mind was, 'What if the rope should break?' It doesn't take long to answer it; the individuals hanging in that cluster below the gloomy trap-door would be of very little consequence in a terrestrial way after the snapping of the rope. [Illustration: DESCENDING THE SHAFT.] "We compared notes afterwards, and found that our sensations were pretty much alike. The general feeling was one of uncertainty, and each one asked himself several times whether he was asleep or awake. Fred said a part of the journey was like a nightmare, and the Doctor said he had the same idea, especially after the noise of the machinery was lost in the distance and everything was in utter silence. For the first few moments we could hear the whirring of the wheel and the jar of the machinery; but very soon these sounds disappeared, and we glided gently downward, without the least sensation of being in motion. It seemed to me not that we were descending, but that the walls of the shaft were rising around us, while our position was stationary. "Contrary to expectation, we found the air quite agreeable. The official who accompanied us said it was peculiarly conducive to health; and many of the employés of the mines had been at work there forty or fifty years, and had never lost a day from illness. We had supposed it would be damp and cold, but, on the contrary, found it dry and of an agreeable temperature, which remains nearly the same all through the year. No doubt the salt has much to do with this healthy condition. Occasionally hydrogen gas collects in some of the shafts which are not properly ventilated, and there have been explosions of fire-damp which destroyed a good many lives. These accidents were the result of carelessness either of the miners or their superintendents, and since their occurrence a more rigid system of inspection has been established. [Illustration: LAMP-BEARERS.] "We stopped at the bottom of the shaft, which is about three hundred feet deep; there we were released from our fastenings and allowed to use our feet again. Then we were guided through a perfect labyrinth of passages, up and down ladders, along narrow paths, into halls spacious enough for the reception of an emperor, and again into little nooks where men were occupied in excavating the salt. For several hours we wandered there, losing all knowledge of the points of compass, and if we had been left to ourselves our chances of emerging again into daylight would have been utterly hopeless. [Illustration: A FOOT-PATH.] "And here let me give you a few figures about the salt-mines of Wieliczka. I cannot promise that they are entirely accurate, but they are drawn from the best sources within our reach. Some were obtained from the under-officials of the mines who accompanied us, and others are taken from the work of previous writers on this subject. "The salt-mine may be fairly regarded as a city under the surface of the earth, as it shelters about a thousand workmen, and contains chapels, churches, railways, stables, and other appurtenances of a place where men dwell. In fact it is a series of cities, one above the other, as there are four tiers of excavations, the first being about two hundred feet below the surface, and the lowest nearly two thousand. The subterranean passages and halls are named after various kings and emperors who have visited them, or who were famous at the time the passages were opened, and altogether they cover an area of several square miles. In a general way the salt-mines of Wieliczka may be said to be nearly two miles square; but the ends of some of the passages are more than two miles from the entrance of the nearest shaft. The entire town of Wieliczka lies above the mines which give occupation to its inhabitants. [Illustration: AN UNDERGROUND CHAPEL.] "There is probably more timber beneath the surface at Wieliczka than above it, as the roofs of the numerous passages are supported by heavy beams; and the same is the case with the smaller halls. In the larger halls such support would be insufficient, and immense columns of salt are left in position. In several instances these pillars of salt have been replaced by columns of brick or stone, as they would be liable to be melted away during any accidental flooding of the mine, and allow the entire upper strata to tumble in. This has actually happened on one occasion, when a part of the mine was flooded and serious damage resulted. "Our guide said the length of the passages, galleries, and halls was nearly four hundred English miles, and the greatest depth reached was two thousand four hundred feet. If we should visit all the galleries and passages, and examine every object of interest in the mines, we should be detained there at least three weeks. Not a single one of all the workmen had been in every part of all the galleries of the mine, and he doubted if there was any officer attached to the concern who would not be liable to be lost if left to himself. "Nobody knows when these mines were discovered; they were worked in the eleventh century, when they belonged to the kingdom of Poland, and an important revenue was derived from them. In the fourteenth century Casimir the Great established elaborate regulations for working the mines, and his regulations are the basis of those which are still in force, in spite of numerous changes. In 1656 they were pledged to Austria, but were redeemed by John Sobieski in 1683. When the first partition of Poland took place, in 1772, they were handed over to Austria, which has had possession of them ever since, with the exception of the short period from 1809 to 1815. "While the mines belonged to Poland the kings of that country obtained a large revenue from them. For two or three centuries this revenue was sufficiently large to serve for the endowment of convents and the dowries of the members of the royal family. The Austrian Government has obtained a considerable revenue from these mines, but owing to the modern competition with salt from other sources, it does not equal the profit of the Polish kings. "Except when reduced by accidents or other causes, the annual production of salt in these mines is about two hundred millions of pounds, or one hundred thousand tons. The deposit is known to extend a long distance, and the Government might, if it wished, increase the production to any desired amount. But it does not consider it judicious to do so, and is content to keep the figures about where they have been since the beginning of the century. The salt supplies a considerable area of country; a large amount, usually of the lower grades, is sent into Russia, and the finer qualities are shipped to various parts of the Austrian Empire. "We asked if the workmen lived in the mines, as was currently reported, and were told they did not. 'They would not be allowed to do so, even if they wished it,' said our guide. 'By the rules of the direction the men are divided into gangs, working eight hours each, and all are required to go to the surface when not on duty. In ancient times it was doubtless the case that men lived here with their families. At one time the mines were worked by prisoners, who did not see daylight for months together, but nothing of the kind has occurred for more than a century at least.' [Illustration: MEN CUTTING SALT IN THE MINE.] "Several times in our walk we came upon little groups of men working in the galleries; and certainly they were not to be envied. Sometimes they were cutting with picks against perpendicular walls, and at others they were lying flat on their backs, digging away at the roof not more than a foot or two above their heads. The shaggy lamp-bearers--generally old men unable to perform heavy work--stood close at hand, and the glare of the light falling upon the flashing crystals of salt that flew in the air, and covered the half-naked bodies of the perspiring workmen, made a picture which I cannot adequately describe. I do not know that I ever looked upon a spectacle more weird than this. [Illustration: FINISHING THE COLUMNS.] "We had expected to see the men in large gangs, but found that they were nearly always divided into little groups. One would think they would prefer any other kind of occupation than this, but our guide told us that the laborers were perfectly free to leave at any time, just as though they were in the employ of a private establishment. There were plenty of men who would gladly fill their places, and frequently they had applications for years in advance. As prices go in Austria, the pay is very good, the men averaging from twenty to fifty cents a day. As far as possible they are paid by the piece, and not by time--the same as in the great majority of mines all over the world. [Illustration: SUBTERRANEAN STABLES.] "But the horses which draw the cars on the subterranean railways are not regarded with the same care as the men. They never return to the light of day after once being lowered into the mine. In a few weeks after arriving there a cataract covers their eyes and the sight disappears. By some this result is attributed to the perpetual darkness, and by others to the effect of the salt. It is probably due to the former, as the workmen do not appear to suffer in the same way. Whether they would become blind if continually kept there is not known, and it is to be hoped that no cruel overseer will endeavor to ascertain by a practical trial. "Every time we came upon a group of workmen they paused in their labors and begged for money. We had provided ourselves with an abundance of copper coins before descending into the mine, and it was well we did so, as they generally became clamorous until obtaining what they wanted. Fortunately they were satisfied with a small coin, and did not annoy us after once being paid. "I cannot begin to give the names of all the halls, galleries, and passages we went through, and if I did, it would be tedious. We wandered up and down, down and up, forward and backward, until it seemed as if there was no end to the journey. And to think we might have been there three weeks without once repeating our steps! I will mention at random some of the most interesting of the things we saw. To tell the whole story and give a full description of this most wonderful salt-mine in the world would require a volume. "The chamber of Michelwic was the first of the large halls that we entered, and was reached after a long journey through winding passages and along foot-paths that sometimes overhung places where it was impossible for the eye, aided only by the light of the lamps, to ascertain the depth of the openings below. In some of the dangerous places there was a rail to prevent one from falling over; but this was not always the case, and you may be sure we kept on the safe side and close to the wall. [Illustration: A MINING SINGER.] "In the hall we were treated to a song by one of the mining over-seers, an old soldier who had lost an arm in some way that was not explained to us. He had an excellent voice that ought to have secured him a good place in the chorus of an opera troupe. He sang a mining song in quite a melodramatic style; and as he did so the notes echoed and re-echoed through the hall till it seemed they would never cease. In the centre of the hall is a chandelier cut from the solid salt, and on grand occasions this chandelier is lighted and a band of music is stationed at one end of the vast space. Its effect is said to be something beyond description, and, judging from the effect of the overseer's voice, I can well believe it. "From this hall we went through a series of chambers and galleries named after the royal and imperial families of Poland and Austria, passing chapels, shrines, altars, and other things indicating the religious character of the people employed in the mines or controlling them, together with many niches containing statues of kings, saints, and martyrs, all hewn from the solid salt. Some of the statues are rudely made, but the most of them are well designed and executed. In some of the chapels worshippers were kneeling before the altars, and it was difficult to realize that we were hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth. "By-and-by our guide said we were coming to the Infernal Lake. The lamp-bearers held their lights high in the air, and we could see the reflection from a sheet of water, but how great might be its extent was impossible to guess. As we approached the edge of the water a boat emerged from the gloom and came towards us. It was a sort of rope ferry, and we immediately thought of the ferry-boat which the ancients believed was employed to carry departed spirits across the river Styx. Certainly the darkness all around was Stygian, and the men on the boat might have been Charon's attendants. "We passed down a few steps, entered the boat, and were pulled away from shore. In less than a minute nothing but the little circle of water around us was visible; the sides of the cavern echoed our voices and every other sound that came from our boat. In the middle of the lake we paused to observe the effect of the sound caused by the waves created by the rocking of the boat. It reverberated through the cavern and away into the galleries, and seemed as though it would last forever. When this sensation was exhausted we moved on again. Doctor Bronson asked the guide how far it was to the other end of the lake, but before the answer was spoken we had a fresh surprise. [Illustration: "GLÜCK-AUF!"] "There was a flash of light from a point high above us, and almost at the same instant another, a little distance ahead. The latter assumed the form of an arch in red fire, displaying the greeting 'GLÜCK-AUF!' or 'GOOD-LUCK!' though this is not the literal translation. We passed under this arch of red fire, and as we did so the words 'Glück-auf! Glück-auf!' were shouted from all around, and at the same time flashes of fire burst from a dozen places above the lake. We shouted 'Glück-auf!' in reply, and then the voices from the mysterious recesses seemed to be quadrupled in number and volume. The air was filled with flashes of light, and was everywhere resonant with the words of the miners' welcome. "At the other end of the lake there was a considerable party waiting to receive us, and of course there was a liberal distribution of coin to everybody. I ought to have said at the outset that we arranged to pay for the illumination of the lake and also of certain specified halls, in addition to the compensation of the guides. The illuminations are entirely proportioned to the amount that the visitors are willing to give for them. It is a good plan to unite with other visitors, and then the individual cost will not be heavy. Twenty dollars will pay for a very good illumination, and fifty dollars will secure something worthy of a prince, though not a first-class one. [Illustration: FÊTE IN THE GRAND SALOON OF ENTERTAINMENT.] "They showed us next through more winding passages, and came at length to the Grand Saloon of Entertainment; which is of immense extent, and has no less than six large chandeliers hanging from the roof. It is lighted on the occasion of the visit of a king or emperor (of course he has to pay the bill), and the effect is said to be wonderful. There is an alcove at one end, with a throne of green and ruby-colored salt, whereon the emperor is seated. A blaze of light all through the hall is reflected from the myriad crystals of salt which form the roof and sides; the floor is strewn with sparkling salt; the columns are decorated with evergreens; festoons of flags abound through the place; and a band of music plays the airs appropriate to the hall and the guest. [Illustration: A RETIRED DIRECTOR.] "The workmen and their families assemble in their holiday dress, and when the music begins the whole party indulges in the Polish national dance. It is a strange spectacle, this scene of revelry five hundred feet below the surface of the earth, and probably among the sights that do not come often before the Imperial eyes. These spectacles must be arranged to order, and for weeks before an Imperial or Royal visit a great many hands are engaged in making the necessary preparations. From all I heard of these festivals, I would willingly travel many hundred miles to see one of them. "By means of the illuminating materials that we brought with us, we were able to get an approximate idea of the character of one of these gala spectacles. After our last Bengal-light had been burned, we continued our journey, descending to the third story by many devious ways, and finally halting in a chamber whose roof was not less than a hundred feet above us. "'Do you know where you are?' said our guide. "Of course we answered that we did not. "'Well,' said he, 'you are directly beneath the lake which we sailed over in a boat a little while ago. If it should break through we should all be drowned, dead.' "We shuddered to think what might be our fate if the lake should spring a leak. It did break out at one time and flooded many of the galleries, and for a long while work in all the lower part of the mine was suspended. There have been several fires, some of them causing the loss of many lives; but, on the whole, considering the long time the mine has been opened and the extent of the works, the accidents have been few. "The deepest excavation in the mine is nearly seven hundred feet below the level of the sea. We did not go there, in fact we did not go below the third story, as we had seen quite enough for our purposes, and besides we had only a limited time to stay in the mine. As we came up again to daylight, hoisted in the same sort of chairs as those by which we descended, we made a final inspection of the salt which comes from the mine. "'There are three kinds of salt,' said the guide. 'One that is called green salt contains five or six per cent. of clay, and has no transparency; it is cut into blocks and sent to Russia exactly as it comes from the mine. The second quality is called _spiza_, and is crystalline and mixed with sand; and the third is in large masses, perfectly transparent, having no earthy matter mingled with it. The salt is found in compact tertiary clays that contain a good many fossils; the finest salt is at the lowest levels, and the poorest at the higher ones.' "Well, here we are at the top of the shaft, tired and hungry, and excited with the wonderful things we have seen. The visit to the salt-mines of Wieliczka is something to be long remembered." * * * * * Since the visit herein described, the manner of working the salt-mines of Wieliczka has undergone a decided change. Owing to the influx of a stream the lower levels of the mines were flooded, and for some time remained full of water. In order to free them it was necessary to introduce powerful pumping machinery of the latest designs, and also to replace the old hoisting apparatus with new. Horse-power was abandoned in favor of steam, both for hoisting and pumping; new precautions were taken against fire; all improved systems of mine-working were tested, and those which proved useful were adopted; and to-day the mines of Wieliczka may be considered, in every respect, the foremost salt-mines in the world. CHAPTER II. LEAVING CRACOW.--THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER.--THE POLICE AND THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.--RUSSIAN CENSORSHIP OF BOOKS AND PAPERS.--CATCHING A SMUGGLER.--FROM THE FRONTIER TO WARSAW.--SIGHTS AND INCIDENTS IN THE CAPITAL OF POLAND.--FROM WARSAW TO ST. PETERSBURG. [Illustration: OUTER WALL OF CRACOW.] The sun was setting as our friends reached Cracow, on their return from Wieliczka. The walls of the city were gilded by the rays of light that streamed over the hills which formed the western horizon. In all its features the scene was well calculated to impress the youthful travellers. Frank wished to make a sketch of the gate-way through which they passed on their entrance within the walls, but the hour was late and delay inadvisable. The commissioner said he would bring them a photograph of the spot, and with this consolation the young man dismissed from his mind the idea of the sketch. All retired early, as they intended taking the morning train for the Russian frontier, and thence to Warsaw. They were up in good season, and at the appointed time the train carried them out of the ancient capital of Poland. [Illustration: CUSTOM HOUSE FORMALITIES.] At Granitsa, the frontier station, they had a halt of nearly two hours. Their passports were carefully examined by the Russian officials, while their trunks underwent a vigorous overhauling. The passports proved to be entirely in order, and there was no trouble with them. The officials were particularly polite to the American trio, and said they were always pleased to welcome Americans to the Empire. They were less courteous to an Englishman who arrived by the same train, and the Doctor said it was evident that the Crimean war had not been entirely forgotten. Several passengers had neglected the precautions which our friends observed at Vienna, in securing the proper indorsement to their passports, and were told that they could not pass the frontier. They were compelled to wait until the passports could be sent to Cracow for approval by the Russian consul at that point, or else to Vienna. A commissioner attached to the railway-station offered to attend to the matter for all who required his aid; formerly it was necessary for the careless traveller to return in person to the point designated, but of late years this has not been required. "This passport business is an outrageous humbug," said the Englishman with whom our friends had fallen into conversation while they were waiting in the anteroom of the passport office. "Its object is to keep improper persons out of Russia; but it does nothing of the kind. Any Nihilist, Revolutionist, or other objectionable individual can always obtain a passport under a fictitious name, and secure the necessary approval of consuls or ambassadors. Ivan Carlovitch, for whom the police are on the watch, comes here with a passport in the name of Joseph Cassini, a native of Malta, and subject of Great Britain. His English passport is obtained easily enough by a little false swearing; it is approved by the Russian minister at Vienna, and the fellow enters Russia with perfect ease. The honest traveller who has neglected the formality through ignorance is detained, while the Revolutionist goes on his way contented. The Revolutionist always knows the technicalities of the law, and is careful to observe them; and it is safe to say that the passport system never prevented any political offender from getting into Russia when he wanted to go there. [Illustration: PASSPORT NOT CORRECT.] "I have been in Russia before," he continued, "and know what I am saying. The first time I went there was from Berlin, and on reaching the frontier I was stopped because my passport was not properly indorsed. I supposed I would have to go back to Berlin, but the station-master said I need not take that trouble; I could stop at the hotel, and he would arrange the whole matter, so that I might proceed exactly twenty-four hours later. I did as he told me, and it was all right." "How was it accomplished?" "Why, he took my passport and a dozen others whose owners were in the same fix as myself, and sent them by the conductor of the train to Koenigsburg, where there is a Russian consul. For a fee of two English shillings (fifty cents of your money) the consul approved each passport; another fee of fifty cents paid the conductor for his trouble, and he brought back the passports on his return run to the frontier. Then the station-master wanted four shillings (one dollar) for his share of the work, and we were all _en regle_ to enter the Russian Empire. We got our baggage ready, and were at the station when the train arrived; the station-master delivered our passports, and collected his fee along with the fees of the conductor and consul, and that ended the whole business. The consul knew nothing about any of the persons named in the passports, and we might have been conspirators or anything else that was objectionable, and nobody would have been the wiser. Russia is the only country in Europe that keeps up the passport system with any severity, and it only results in putting honest people to trouble and expense, and never stops those whom it is intended to reach. There, they've opened the door, and we can now go before the representatives of the autocrat of all the Russias." [Illustration: IN THE PASSPORT BUREAU.] One by one they approached the desk, with the result already stated. At the examination of the baggage in the custom-house the clothing and personal effects of our friends were passed without question, but there was some difficulty over a few books which the boys had bought before leaving Vienna. One volume, pronounced objectionable, was seized as contraband, but the others were not taken. Every book written by a foreigner about Russia is carefully examined by the official censor as soon as it is published, and upon his decision depends the question of its circulation being allowed in the Empire. Anything calculated to throw disrespect upon the Imperial family, or upon the Government in general, is prohibited, as well as everything which can be considered to have a revolutionary tendency. "They are not so rigid as they used to be," growled the Englishman, as he closed and locked his trunk after the examination was completed. "In the time of the Emperor Nicholas they would not allow anything that indicated there was any other government in the world which amounted to anything, and they were particularly severe upon all kinds of school-books. Now they rarely object to school-books, unless they contain too many teachings of liberty; and they are getting over their squeamishness about criticisms, even if they are abusive and untruthful. The worst case I ever heard of was of an inspector at one of the frontier stations, who seized a book on astronomy because it contained a chapter on 'The Revolutions of the Earth.' He said nothing revolutionary could be allowed to enter the Empire, and confiscated the volume in spite of its owner's explanations. "Under Nicholas," continued the Englishman, "Macaulay's 'History of England' was prohibited, though it could be bought without much trouble. After Alexander II. ascended the throne the rigors of the censorship were greatly reduced, and papers and books were freely admitted into Russia which were prohibited in France under Louis Napoleon. All the Tauchnitz editions of English works were permitted, even including Carlyle's 'French Revolution.' It is possible that the last-named book had escaped notice, as you would hardly expect it to be allowed free circulation in Russia. Books and newspapers addressed to the professors of the universities, to officers above the rank of colonel, and to the legations of foreign countries are not subjected to the censorship, or at least they were not so examined a few years ago. Since the rise of Nihilism the authorities have become more rigid again, and books and papers are stopped which would not have been suppressed at all before the death of Alexander II. "If you want to know the exact functions of the censor," said the gentleman, turning to Frank and Fred, "here is an extract from his instructions." With these words he gave to one of the youths a printed slip which stated that it was the censor's duty to prohibit and suppress "all works written in a spirit hostile to the orthodox Greek Church, or containing anything that is contrary to the truths of the Christian religion, or subversive of good manners or morality; all publications tending to assail the inviolability of autocratical monarchical power and the fundamental laws of the Empire, or to diminish the respect due to the Imperial family; all productions containing attacks on the honor or reputation of any one, by improper expressions, by the publication of circumstances relating to domestic life, or by calumny of any kind whatever." The boys thanked the gentleman for the information he had given them on a subject about which they were curious; and as the examination of the custom-house was completed, they proceeded to the restaurant, which was in a large hall at the end of the station. [Illustration: WAY STATION ON THE RAILWAY.] Near the door of the restaurant was the office of a money-changer, its character being indicated by signs in at least half a dozen languages. Passengers were exchanging their Austrian money for Russian, and the office seemed to be doing an active business. "That fellow has about as good a trade as one could wish," said the Englishman, as he nodded in the direction of the man at the little window. "Two trains arrive here daily each way; for people going north he changes Austrian into Russian money, and for those going south he changes Russian into Austrian. He receives one per cent. commission on each transaction, which amounts to four per cent. daily, as he handles the money four times. I have often envied these frontier bankers, who run no risk whatever, provided they are not swindled with counterfeits, and can make twelve hundred per cent. annually on their capital. But perhaps they have to pay so dearly for the privilege that they are unable to get rich by their business. By-the-way," said he, changing the subject abruptly, "did you observe the stout lady that stood near us in the anteroom of the passport office?" [Illustration: BEFORE EXAMINATION.] "Yes," answered the Doctor, "and she seemed quite uneasy, as though she feared trouble." "Doubtless she did," was the reply, "but it was not on account of her passport. She was probably laden with goods which she intended smuggling into Russia, and feared detection. I noticed that she was called aside by the custom-house officials, and ushered into the room devoted to suspected persons. She isn't here yet, and perhaps they'll keep her till the train has gone. Ah! here she comes." [Illustration: AFTER EXAMINATION.] Frank and Fred looked in the direction indicated, but could not see any stout lady; neither could the Doctor, but he thought he recognized a face he had seen before. It belonged to a woman who was comparatively slight in figure, and who took her seat very demurely at one of the tables near the door. "That is the stout lady of the anteroom," said the Englishman, "and her form has been reduced more rapidly than any advocate of the Banting or any other anti-fat system ever dreamed of. She was probably detected by her uneasy manner, and consequently was subjected to an examination at the hands of the female searchers. They've removed dry goods enough from her to set up a small shop, and she won't undertake smuggling again in a hurry. Import duties are high in Russia, and the temptation to smuggle is great. She was an inexperienced smuggler, or she would not have been caught so easily. Probably she is of some other nationality than Russian, or they would not have liberated her after confiscating her contraband goods." The incident led to a conversation upon the Russian tariff system, which is based upon the most emphatic ideas in favor of protection to home industries. As it is no part of our intention to discuss the tariff in this volume, we will omit what was said upon the subject, particularly as no notes were taken by either Frank or Fred. In due time the train on the Russian side of the station was ready to receive the travellers, and they took their places in one of the carriages. It needed only a glance to show they had crossed the frontier. The Austrian uniform disappeared, and the Russian took its place; the Russian language was spoken instead of German; the carriages were lettered in Russian; posts painted in alternate stripes of white and black (the invention of the Emperor Paul about the beginning of the present century), denoted the sovereignty of the Czar; and the dress of many of the passengers indicated a change of nationality. [Illustration: SCENE ON THE RAILWAY.] The train rolled away from Granitsa in the direction of Warsaw, which was the next point of destination of our friends. The country through which they travelled was not particularly interesting; it was fairly though not thickly settled, and contained no important towns on the line of the railway, or any other object of especial interest. Their English acquaintance said there were mines of coal, iron, and zinc in the neighborhood of Zombkowitse, where the railway from Austria unites with that from eastern Germany. It is about one hundred and eighty miles from Warsaw; about forty miles farther on there was a town with an unpronounceable name, with about ten thousand inhabitants, and a convent, which is an object of pilgrimage to many pious Catholics of Poland and Silesia. A hundred miles from Warsaw they passed Petrikau, which was the seat of the ancient tribunals of Poland; and then, if the truth must be told, they slept for the greater part of the way till the train stopped at the station in the Praga suburb of Warsaw, on the opposite bank of the Vistula. [Illustration: SHUTES FOR LOADING COAL ON THE RAILWAY.] As they neared the station they had a good view of Warsaw, on the heights above the river, and commanded by a fortress which occupies the centre of the city itself. Alighting from the train, they surrendered their passports to an official, who said the documents would be returned to them at the Hôtel de l'Europe, where they proposed to stop during their sojourn within the gates of Warsaw. Tickets permitting them to go into the city were given in exchange for the passports, and then they entered a rickety omnibus and were driven to the hotel. It was late in the afternoon when they climbed the sloping road leading into Warsaw, and looked down upon the Vistula and the stretch of low land on the Praga side. Fred repeated the lines of the old verse from which we have already quoted, and observed how well the scene is described in a single couplet: "Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid." Laid desolate by many wars and subjected to despotic rule, the country around Warsaw bears little evidence of prosperity. Many houses are without tenants, and many farms are either half tilled or wholly without cultivation. The spirit of revolution springs eternal in the Polish breast, and the spirit of suppression must be equally enduring in the breast of the Russian. It is only by the severest measures that the Russians can maintain their control of Poland. A Polish writer has well described the situation when he says, "Under a cruel government, it is Poland's duty to rebel against oppression; under a liberal government, it is her duty to rebel because she has the opportunity." After dinner at the hotel our friends started for a walk through the principal streets; but they did not go very far. The streets were poorly lighted, few people were about, and altogether the stroll was not particularly interesting. They returned to the hotel, and devoted an hour or so to a chat about Poland and her sad history. "Walls are said to have ears," the Doctor remarked, "but we have little cause to be disturbed about them, as we are only discussing among ourselves the known facts of history. Poland and Russia were at war for centuries, and at one time Poland had the best of the fight. How many of those who sympathize so deeply with the wrongs of Poland are aware of the fact that in 1610 the Poles held Moscow as the Russians now hold Warsaw, and that the Russian Czar was taken prisoner, and died the next year in a Polish prison? Moscow was burned by the Poles in 1611, and thousands of its inhabitants were slaughtered; in 1612 the Poles were driven out, and from that time to the present their wars with Russia have not been successful." "I didn't know that," said Frank, "until I read it to-day in one of our books." "Nor did I," echoed Fred; "and probably not one person in a hundred is aware of it." [Illustration: POLISH NATIONAL COSTUMES.] "Understand," said the Doctor, with emphasis--"understand that I do not say this to justify in any way the wrongs that Russia may have visited on Poland, but simply to show that all the wrong has not been on one side. Russia and Poland have been hostile to each other for centuries; they are antagonistic in everything--language, religion, customs, and national ambitions--and there could be no permanent peace between them until one had completely absorbed the other. Twice in this century (in 1830 and 1863) the Poles have rebelled against Russia, because they had the opportunity in consequence of the leniency of the Government. From present appearances they are not likely to have the opportunity again for a long time, if ever." One of the youths asked how the revolution of 1830 was brought about. [Illustration: PEASANT'S FARM-HOUSE.] "Poland had been, as you know, divided at three different times, by Russia, Austria, and Prussia," said the Doctor, "the third partition taking place in 1795. At the great settlement among the Powers of Europe, in 1815, after the end of the Napoleonic wars, the Emperor of Russia proposed to form ancient Poland into a constitutional monarchy under the Russian crown. His plan was adopted, with some modifications, and from 1815 to 1830 the country had its national Diet or Parliament, its national administration, and its national army of thirty thousand men. The Russian Emperor was the King of Poland, and this the Poles resented; they rebelled, and were defeated. After the defeat the constitution was withdrawn and the national army abolished; the Polish universities were closed, the Polish language was proscribed in the public offices, and every attempt was made to Russianize the country. It was harshly punished for its rebellion until Alexander II. ascended the throne. "Alexander tried to conciliate the people by granting concessions. The schools and universities were reopened; the language was restored; Poles were appointed to nearly all official positions; elective district and municipal councils were formed, and also a Polish Council of State. But nothing short of independence would satisfy the inhabitants, and then came the revolution of 1863. It was suppressed, like its predecessor, and from that time the Russians have maintained such an iron rule in Poland that a revolt of any importance is next to impossible. All the oppression of which Russia is capable cannot destroy the spirit of independence among the Poles. They are as patriotic as the Irish, and will continue to hope for liberty as long as their blood flows in human veins." A knock on the door brought the Doctor's discourse to an abrupt end. It was made by the commissioner, who came to arrange for their excursion on the following day. We will see in due course where they went and what they saw. It is now their bedtime, and they are retiring for the night. [Illustration: ROYAL PALACE AT WARSAW.] The next morning they secured a carriage, and drove through the principal streets and squares, visiting the Royal Palace and other buildings of importance, and also the parks and gardens outside the city limits. Concerning their excursion in Warsaw the youths made the following notes: "We went first to the Royal Castle, which we were not permitted to enter, as it is occupied by the Viceroy of Poland, or 'the Emperor's Lieutenant,' as he is more commonly called. It is a very old building, which has been several times altered and restored. There were many pictures and other objects of art in the castle until 1831, when they were removed to St. Petersburg. In the square in front of the castle is a statue of one of the kings of Poland, and we were told that the square was the scene of some of the uprisings of the Poles against their Russian masters. [Illustration: SHRINE AT A GATEWAY.] "From the castle we went to the cathedral, which was built in the thirteenth century, and contains monuments to the memory of several of the kings and other great men of the country. It is proper to say here that the Catholic is the prevailing religion of Poland, and no doubt much of the hatred of Russians and Poles for each other is in consequence of their religious differences. By the latest figures of the population that we have at hand, Russian Poland contains about 3,800,000 Catholics, 300,000 Protestants, 700,000 Jews, and 250,000 members of the Greek Church and adherents of other religions, or a little more than 5,000,000 of inhabitants in all. Like all people who have been oppressed, the Catholics and Jews are exceedingly devout, and adhere unflinchingly to their religious faith. Churches and synagogues are numerous in Warsaw, as in the other Polish cities. In our ride through Warsaw we passed many shrines, and at nearly all of them the faithful were kneeling to repeat the prayers prescribed by their religious teachers. "From the cathedral we went to the citadel, which is on a hill in the centre of the city, and was built after the revolution of 1830. The expense of its construction was placed upon the people as a punishment for the revolution, and for the purpose of bombarding the city in case of another rebellion. From the walls of the citadel there is a fine view of considerable extent; but there is nothing in the place of special interest. The fort is constantly occupied by a garrison of Russian soldiers. It contains a prison for political offenders and a military court-house, where they are tried for their alleged offences. [Illustration: LAKE IN THE PARK.] "There are ten or twelve squares, or open places, in Warsaw, of which the finest is said to be the Saxon Square. It contains a handsome monument to the Poles who adhered to the Russian cause in the revolution of 1830. Some writers say it was all a mistake, and that the Poles whose memory is here preserved were really on their way to join the regiments which had declared in favor of the insurrection. "There are several handsome streets and avenues; and as for the public palaces and fine residences which once belonged to noble families of Poland, but are now mostly in Government hands, the list alone would be long and tedious. One of the finest palaces is in the Lazienki Park, and was built by King Stanislaus Poniatowski. It is the residence of the Emperor of Russia when he comes to Warsaw; but as his visits are rare, it is almost always accessible to travellers. We stopped a few minutes in front of the statue of King John Sobieski. There is an anecdote about this statue which the students of Russian and Polish history will appreciate. During a visit in 1850 the Emperor Nicholas paused in front of the statue, and remarked to those around him, 'The two kings of Poland who committed the greatest errors were John Sobieski and myself, for we both saved the Austrian monarchy.' "Inside the palace there are many fine paintings and other works of art. There are portraits of Polish kings and queens, and other rare pictures, but not as many as in the Castle of Villanov, which we afterwards visited. In the latter, which was the residence of John Sobieski, and now belongs to Count Potocki, there are paintings by Rubens and other celebrated masters, and there is a fine collection of armor, including the suit which was presented to Sobieski by the Pope, after the former had driven the Turks away from Vienna. It is beautifully inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, and covered with arabesques of astonishing delicacy. We could have spent hours in studying it, and you may be sure we left it with great reluctance. [Illustration: A BUSINESS MAN OF WARSAW.] "Warsaw has a population of nearly three hundred thousand, and there are a good many factories for the manufacture of carriages, pianos, cloth, carpets, and machines of various kinds. The city is the centre of a large trade in grain, cattle, horses, and wool, and altogether it may be considered prosperous. Much of the business is in the hands of the Jews, who have managed to have and hold a great deal of wealth in spite of the oppression they have undergone by both Poles and Russians. "The women of Warsaw are famous for their beauty, and we are all agreed that we have seen more pretty faces here than in any other city of Europe in the same time. The Jews of Warsaw are nearly all blonds; the men have red beards, and the hair of the women is of the shade that used to be the fashion among American and English actresses, and is not yet entirely forgotten. We bought some photographs in one of the shops, and are sure they will be excellent adornments for our albums at home. "In the evening we went to the opera in the hope of seeing the national costumes of the Poles, but in this we were disappointed. The operas are sung in Italian; the principal singers are French, Italian, English, or any other nationality, like those of opera companies elsewhere, and only the members of the chorus and ballet are Poles. Russian uniforms are in the boxes and elsewhere in the house, and every officer is required to wear his sword, and be ready at any moment to be summoned to fight. The men not in uniform are in evening dress, and the ladies are like those of an audience in Vienna or Naples, so far as their dress is concerned. The opera closed at half-past eleven; our guide met us outside the door, and when we proposed a stroll he said we must be at the hotel by midnight, under penalty of being arrested. Any one out-of-doors between midnight and daylight will be taken in by the police and locked up, unless he has a pass from the authorities. In troubled times the city is declared in a state of siege, and then everybody on the streets after dusk must carry a lantern. "As we had no fancy for passing the night in a Russian station-house, we returned straight to the hotel. Probably we would have been there by midnight in any event, as we were tired enough to make a long walk objectionable." The next day our friends visited some of the battle-fields near Warsaw, and on the third took the train for St. Petersburg, six hundred and twenty-five miles away. There was little of interest along the line of railway, as the country is almost entirely a plain, and one mile is so much like another that the difference is scarcely perceptible. The principal towns or cities through which they passed were Bialystok and Grodno, the latter famous for having been the residence of several Polish kings, and containing the royal castle where they lived. At Wilna, four hundred and forty-one miles from St. Petersburg, the railway unites with that from Berlin. The change of train and transfer of baggage detained the party half an hour or more, but not long enough to allow them to inspect this ancient capital of the independent duchy of Lithuania. At Pskof they had another halt, but only sufficient for patronizing the restaurant. The town is two miles from the station, and contains an old castle and several other buildings of note; it has a prominent place in Poland's war history, but is not often visited by travellers. [Illustration: IN ST. PETERSBURG.] At Gatchina, famous for its trout and containing an Imperial palace, an official collected the passports of the travellers, which were afterwards returned to them on arriving at the St. Petersburg station. As they approached the Imperial city the first object to catch the eye was a great ball of gold outlined against the sky. Frank said it must be the dome of St. Isaac's Church, and the Doctor nodded assent to the suggestion. The dome of St. Isaac's is to the capital of Russia what the dome of St. Peter's is to Rome--the first object on which the gaze of the approaching traveller is fixed. CHAPTER III. IN THE STREETS OF ST. PETERSBURG.--ISVOSHCHIKS AND DROSKIES.--COUNTING IN RUSSIAN.--PASSPORTS AND THEIR USES.--ON THE NEVSKI PROSPECT.--VISITING THE CHURCH OF KAZAN.--THE RUSSO-GREEK RELIGION.--UNFAVORABLE POSITION OF ST. PETERSBURG.--DANGER OF DESTRUCTION.--GREAT INUNDATION OF 1824.--STATUE OF PETER THE GREAT.--ADMIRALTY SQUARE.--THE SAILORS AND THE STATUE. A commissioner from the Hôtel de l'Europe was at the station. Doctor Bronson gave him the receipts for their trunks, and after securing their passports, which had been examined on the train during the ride from Gatchina, the party entered a carriage and rode to the hotel. Frank and Fred were impatient to try a drosky, and wondered why the Doctor had not secured one of the vehicles characteristic of the country. "You'll have abundant opportunities for drosky-riding," said Doctor Bronson, in reply to Fred's query on the subject. "For the present the vehicle is not suited to our purposes, as we have our hand-baggage and other trifles; besides, we are three individuals, while the drosky is only large enough for two." The youths confirmed with their eyes the correctness of the Doctor's assertion as the little vehicles were whizzing around them in every direction. The drosky is a stout carriage on low wheels, somewhat resembling the victoria of Western Europe, and is drawn by a single horse. The isvoshchik, or driver, is seated on a high box in front, and somehow he manages to get an astonishing speed out of the shaggy animal that forms his team. Frank afterwards wrote as follows concerning droskies and isvoshchiks: "It is astonishing to contemplate the swarm of droskies with which St. Petersburg and every other Russian city abounds. They are to be found everywhere and at all hours. No matter where you may be, or at what hour of the day or night, you have only to call out 'Isvoshchik!' or 'Drosky!' and one of the little carriages appears as if by magic. Not only one, but half a dozen will be pretty sure to come forward. The drivers contend, and not always very politely, for the honor of your patronage; but as soon as you have made your selection the rejected ones drop away and leave you undisturbed. [Illustration: ISVOSHCHIKS IN WINTER.] "There is something interesting in the manner of the isvoshchik, especially in the marked contrast before and after he has made a bargain with you. Until the transaction is closed, he is as independent as the hackman of New York or the cabby of London. The moment the bargain is settled and he has accepted your offer, he is your willing slave. Offer him forty copecks an hour, and he refuses, while demanding fifty or sixty; you walk on, and he pretends to go away, and if your offer is unreasonably low he will not trouble you again. Suddenly he reins up his horse close to the sidewalk, springs from his seat, and with the word '_Poshowltz_' ('If you please') he motions you to enter the carriage. He is now at your service, and will drive just as you desire; your slightest wish will be his law. [Illustration: DROSKY DRIVERS.] "Doctor Bronson told us we must learn how to count in Russian, and also acquire a few phrases in common use; the more of them we could learn the better. While on the train from Warsaw to St. Petersburg we learned to count. I think we did it in about two hours, as it was really very simple after we had gone through the numerals up to ten and fixed them in mind. Perhaps you would like to know how it is done; well, here it is: "The numerals from one to twelve are o-_deen_, dva, tree, che-_tee_-ri, pyat, shayst, sem, vocem, _de_-vee-at, _de_-ci-at, odeen-nat-zat, dva-nat-zat. For thirteen, fourteen, and so on, you add 'nat-zat' to the single numerals till you get to twenty, which is 'dva-deciat,' or two tens. Twenty-one is 'dva-deciat-odeen,' or two tens and one, and so on. You go up to thirty, which is 'tree-deciat,' or three tens, but generally shortened in pronunciation to 'treetsat' or 'tritsat.' All the other tens up to ninety are formed in the same way, with the exception of forty, which is 'sorok.' Ninety is 'deviat-na-sto' ('ten taken from hundred'), and one hundred is 'sto;' two hundred is 'dva-sto.' The other hundreds are formed in the same way to five hundred, which is 'pyat sot;' six hundred is 'shayst sot,' and the other hundreds go on the same way; one thousand is 'tis-syat-_sha_.' You can now go ahead with tens and hundreds of thousands up to a million, which is 'meel-yon'--very much like our own word for the same number. "It helps us greatly in getting around among the people without a guide. We can bargain with the drivers, make purchases in the shops, and do lots and lots of things which we could not if we didn't know how to count. Any boy or man who comes to Russia should learn to count while he is riding from the frontier to St. Petersburg, and if he takes our advice he will do so. He can find it all in Murray's or any other good guide-book, and he will also find there the most useful phrases for travelling purposes. "In driving with the isvoshchiks, we have found them very obliging, and both Fred and I have been many times surprised at their intelligence when we remembered that very few of them were able to read or write their own language. When they find we are foreigners, and do not speak Russian, they do not jabber away like French or German drivers, or London cabbies, but confine themselves to a very few words. Take one we had to-day, for example: as he drove along he called our attention to the churches and other public buildings that we passed by, pronouncing the name of the building and nothing more. In this way we understood him; but if he had involved the name with a dozen or twenty other words we should have been in a perfect fog about it. [Illustration: SLEDGE OF A HIGH OFFICIAL.] "In winter the drosky makes way for the sledge, which is the tiniest vehicle of the kind you can imagine. Two persons can crowd into a sledge, though there is really room for only one. Whether you are one or two, you sit with your face within ten or twelve inches of the driver's back, which forms almost the entire feature of your landscape. The sledges in winter are even more numerous than are the droskies in summer, as many persons ride then who do not do so when the weather is warm. "Everybody rides in a Russian city in winter--at least everybody who claims to have much respect for himself; and in fact riding is so cheap that it must be a very shallow purse that cannot afford it. For a drive of a mile or less you pay eight or ten copecks (ten copecks equal eight cents), and you can ride a couple of miles for fifteen copecks, and sometimes for ten. By the hour you pay forty or fifty copecks; and if you make a bargain you can have the vehicle all to yourself a whole day for a dollar and a half, and sometimes less. They go very fast; and if your time is limited, and you want to see a good deal in a little while, it is the best kind of economy to hire an isvoshchik to take you about." We left our friends on the way to the hotel when we wandered off to hear what Frank had to say about the droskies and their drivers. The ride along the streets was full of interest to the youths, to whom it was all new; but it was less so to Doctor Bronson, who had been in St. Petersburg before. They drove up the Vosnesenski Prospect, a broad avenue which carried them past the Church of the Holy Trinity, one of the interesting churches out of the many in the city, and then by a cross street passed into the Nevski Prospect, which may be called the Broadway of the Russian capital. We shall hear more of the Nevski Prospect later on. At the hotel they surrendered their passports to the clerk as soon as they had selected their rooms; the Doctor told the youths they would not again see those important documents until they had settled their bill and prepared to leave. Frank and Fred were surprised at this announcement, and the Doctor explained: "The passports must go at once to the Central Bureau of the Police, and we shall be registered as stopping in this hotel. When the register has been made the passports will be returned to the hotel and locked up in the manager's safe, according to the custom of the country." "Why doesn't he give them back to us instead of locking them in the safe?" one of the youths inquired. "It has long been the custom for the house-owner to keep the passport of any one lodging with him, as he is in a certain sense responsible for his conduct. Besides, it enables him to be sure that nobody leaves without paying his bill, for the simple reason that he can't get away. When we are ready to go we must give a few hours' notice; the passports will be sent to the police-office again, with a statement as to our destination; after we have paid our bills and are ready to go, the passports will be handed to us along with the receipt for our money." "That makes hotel-keeping a great deal more certain than it is in American cities, does it not?" said Fred. "And you never hear in Russia of a man running away from a hotel where he has contracted a large bill, and leaving nothing but a trunk filled with straw and stove-wood as security, do you?" Frank inquired. "Such a thing is unknown," the Doctor answered. "I once told some Russian acquaintances about the way hotel-keepers were defrauded in America by unprincipled persons. One of them exclaimed, 'What a happy country! and how cheaply a man could live there, with no police officers to stop his enterprise!'" "When you go from one city to another," said the Doctor, "the formality to be observed is slight, and the hotel people will attend to it for you without charge. When you are going to leave Russia, a few days' notice must be given at the police-office; and if any creditors have filed their claims against you with the police, you must settle them before you can have your passport. If any one owes you money, and you have reason to believe he intends leaving the country, you can stop him or get your money by leaving your account with the police for collection. Absconding debtors are nearly as rare in Russia as absconding hotel-patrons, for the simple reason that the law restricts their movements. In spite of what our English friend said of the passport system, there are some excellent features about it. Another thing is--" They were interrupted by a servant, who came to ask if there were any friends in St. Petersburg whom they wished to find. The commissioner was going to the Police Bureau with the passports, and would make any inquiries they desired. The Doctor answered in the negative, and the servant went away. "That is what I was about to mention," said Doctor Bronson, as soon as the door was closed. "The first time I came to St. Petersburg I was riding along the Nevski Prospect, and saw an old acquaintance going in the other direction. He did not see me, and before I could turn to follow him he was lost in the crowd of vehicles. But in two hours I found him, and we had a delightful afternoon together. How do you suppose I did it? "Why, I sent to the Police Bureau, paid two cents, and obtained a memorandum of his address. For a fee of two cents you can get the address of any one you name, and for two cents each any number of addresses. In numerous instances I found it a great convenience, and so have other travellers. If you wanted to find a friend in New York or London, and didn't know his address, you would have a nice time about it; but in Moscow or St. Petersburg there would be no trouble whatever." As soon as they had removed the dust of the journey our friends went out for a stroll before dinner. The Hôtel de l'Europe is on the corner of the Nevski Prospect and one of the smaller streets, and only a short distance from the _Kazanski Sobor_, or Church of Kazan. But before they enter this celebrated edifice we will look with them at the grand avenue, the Nevski Prospect. "It is straight as a sunbeam for three miles," said Fred in his note-book, "with the Admiralty Buildings at one end, and the Church of St. Alexander Nevski at the other, though the latter is a little way from the line. It is perfectly level from end to end, like a street of New Orleans or Sacramento. St. Petersburg is built on a marsh, and through its whole extent there isn't a hill other than an artificial one. It is a broad avenue (one hundred and thirty feet in width), reminding us of the boulevards of Paris, and the crowd of vehicles coming and going at all hours of the day and far into the night makes the scene a picturesque one. [Illustration: RUSSIAN WORKMEN ON THEIR WAY HOME.] "All classes and kinds of Russians are to be seen here, from the mujik, with his rough coat of sheepskin, up to the officer of the army, whose breast is covered with decorations by the dozen or even more. The vehicles are of many kinds, the drosky being the most frequent, and there is hardly one of them without the _duga_, or yoke, over the horse between the shafts. The horses are driven furiously, but they are completely under the control of their drivers, and accidents are said to be very rare. Perhaps this is owing to the fact that a driver is liable to severe punishment if he causes any injury to a pedestrian. [Illustration: RUSSIAN OFFICER WITH DECORATIONS.] "Somebody has remarked that the Nevski Prospect ought to be called Toleration Avenue, for the reason that it contains churches of so many different faiths. There are of course the Russo-Greek churches, representing the religion of the country, and there are Catholic, Lutheran, Dutch, and Armenian churches, standing peacefully in the same line. It is a pity that the adherents of these diverse religions do not always agree as well as do the inanimate edifices that represent them. "The buildings are very substantial in appearance, and many of them are literally palaces. The military headquarters are on the Nevski, and so is the palace of one of the grand-dukes; then there are several palaces belonging to noble families. There is the Institution of St. Catherine, and the Gostinna Dvor, or Great Market-place, with ten thousand merchants, more or less, transacting business there. We'll go there to make some purchases and tell you about it; at present we will cross the Nevski to the Church of Kazan. "It reminds us of the Church of St. Peter at Rome, as it has a colonnade in imitation of the one which attracts the eye of every visitor to the Eternal City, and takes its name from "Our Lady of Kazan," to whom it is dedicated. Kazan was once a Tartar city, and the capital of the Tartar kingdom of the same name. It was fortified, and stoutly defended, and gave the Russians a great deal of trouble. In the sixteenth century John the Terrible conquered the kingdom and annexed it to Russia. The last act in the war was the capture of the city of Kazan. The Russians were several times repulsed, but finally the Kremlin was carried, and the Tartar power came to an end. A picture of the Virgin was carried in front of the attacking column, and this picture, all devout Russians believe, gave the victory over the Moslem. The church was built in memory of the event, and the sacred picture from Kazan is preserved and worshipped here. "It is a beautiful church, in the form of a cross, two hundred and thirty-eight feet long and one hundred and eighty-two feet wide. From the ground to the top of the cross above the cupola is more than two hundred and thirty feet, and the cupola is so large that it is visible from a long distance. As we entered the church we were struck by the absence of seats. We were told by the Doctor that Russian churches contain no seats, and all worshippers must stand or kneel while at their devotions. To this there are no exceptions; the same requirement being made of the Emperor as of the most obscure peasant. "There is no instrumental music in the Greek Church, and church choirs composed of male and female voices are unknown here. All the singers in the churches are men; the prayers are mostly intoned, and all the congregation joins in the responses. There are no pews, or reserved places of any kind, except a standing-place for the Emperor, all worshippers being considered equal; neither are there any fees to be paid by those who come to worship. "The picture of Our Lady of Kazan, which has such a miraculous legend connected with it, is richly covered with precious stones, said to be worth nearly a hundred thousand dollars. There are other costly pictures in the church, but none to equal this one. There are a good many flags, and other trophies of war, along the walls and around the pillars; and, to tell the truth, it has almost as much the appearance of a military museum as of a cathedral. There are the keys of Hamburg, Leipsic, and other cities which at various times have been captured by Russia, and the church contains the tombs of several Russian generals who were killed in the war with France in 1812. [Illustration: A RUSSIAN PRIEST.] "We observed a curious effect in the pictures in this church which we found afterwards in a great many holy pictures in Russia. The hands and face, and any other flesh, are painted on a flat surface, but the dress and ornaments are often raised in gold, silver, or other metal, and studded with precious stones, according to the will or financial ability of the owner. The Church rejects all massive images of the Saviour or saints as idolatrous, and says they violate the commandment "Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image." It does not exclude mosaics, and anything produced in low relief, but the rule that flesh shall be represented by a flat surface is imperative. "We afterwards attended service in the Kazan church, and were impressed with its solemnity and simplicity. The vocal music had an admirable effect as it resounded through the vast building, and we have never anywhere seen a congregation more devout than this. Nearly every one held a candle, and carefully guarded the flame from the draughts that occasionally swept over the congregation. Illuminations have a very important place in all church ceremonies, and there are no weddings, betrothals, funerals, or any other sacred services, without candles or tapers. "Lights are kept burning in front of the principal pictures in the churches. Throughout the Empire there is an _Eikon_, or sacred picture, in the principal room of every house whose owner is an adherent of the Church of the country, and often in every room of consequence. On entering a room where there is such a picture, every devout Russian crosses himself; and so great is the respect shown to it, that when Russian thieves enter a room for the purpose of stealing, they spread a handkerchief over the picture so that the saint who is represented upon it cannot see them. "Religion has a more important part in the practical life of the Russians than in that of any other people of Europe. The blessing of the Church is invoked upon every undertaking. Steamboats, ships, and all other craft are blessed by the priest at their launching or before being put into service; the locomotives and carriages of a railway are similarly treated; and the same may be said of every vehicle, machine, or other thing of consequence. So with cattle, horses, sheep, and other live-stock; and so, also, with the furniture and adornments of the house. "In the theatres the Government does not allow the representation of any kind of religious ceremonial as part of a performance, lest it might bring religion into ridicule, and under no circumstances can an actor be dressed to personate a priest. The Czar, or Emperor, is the recognized head of the Church, and among the common people he is regarded as only a little less than a divinity. "Those who have lived long among the Russians, and ought to know them, say the venerative feeling among the common people is very great, and more so among the higher classes than in the Latin countries of Europe. They are devout church-goers, and the feasts and fasts of the Church are carefully observed. They form a serious drawback to business matters, as there are certain days when no man or woman can be induced to work at any price. The owners of establishments which require to be kept constantly in operation manage to get around this custom by keeping their employés constantly in debt, as the Russian law and custom compel a man to work steadily to discharge such indebtedness. "Pilgrimages to monasteries and shrines are more common among the Russians than any other Christian people, and the poorer classes often go on long and painful journeys through their religious zeal. A large number of Russian pilgrims can be found in Jerusalem every year at Easter, as well as at other times. So important is this pilgrimage that the Russian Government maintains a convent at Jerusalem for lodging its subjects; and the Crimean war practically grew out of a quarrel which was brought about with reference to the holy places of the famous city. [Illustration: CONVENT OF SOLOVETSK IN THE FROZEN SEA.] "Great numbers of pilgrims go every year from all parts of Russia to the Convent of Solovetsk in the Frozen Sea, seven or eight hundred miles to the north-east of the capital. "We may have more to say on religious matters before leaving Russia, but for the present we will drop the subject and continue our walk on the Nevski." As they strolled in the direction of the Neva, the river that gives its name to the long avenue, Fred asked how it happened that St. Petersburg was built on a marsh instead of upon elevated ground. "It was because Peter the Great wanted a capital city that could be a seaport, and this was the best site that could be found. Moscow was inland (it is four hundred miles from here to that city), and Peter realized that no country could be great and important without communication over the sea to other lands. So he came here and founded the city which bears his name. It was a forbidding place, but his will was law, and the city grew and lived though a hundred thousand men perished in the first year of its construction. The first house was built in 1703. In 1712 Peter declared it his capital, and the Imperial court was moved here from Moscow. For a long time the place was very unhealthy, and even down to the present day it is not by any means the best location in the world for a city. The drainage is defective, the drinking-water is not good, especially in the summer season, and the city has several times suffered from inundations. "For many years every vessel coming to the port, and every cart entering the city, was required to bring a certain number of stones for filling the marsh and paving the streets. Where the large buildings stand, fabulous amounts have been expended in making foundations, and many of them have cost more than the buildings that stand upon them. The foundations of the Church of St. Isaac are said to have cost four millions of dollars, and twenty-five years were spent in their construction." Frank asked about the inundations mentioned by the Doctor. "There have been some eight or ten of them," the Doctor answered. "The most serious inundation of this century was in 1824, when the water of the Neva rose thirteen feet and four inches above its ordinary level. Observe that line," said he, as he pointed to a mark upon a building: "that is the point to which the waters rose in the inundation of 1824." [Illustration: THE INUNDATION OF 1824.] The mark was nearly four feet above the level of the sidewalk where they stood. Frank and Fred regarded it with astonishment, while the Doctor continued: "In a single night (November 17th) property to the value of twenty millions of dollars was destroyed, and it was estimated that not less than eight thousand people lost their lives. The flood was caused by a strong westerly wind which combined with the tide and forced the waters in from the Gulf of Finland, which is here formed like a funnel. Now suppose the flood had occurred in April, at the time when Lake Ladoga breaks up and pours its accumulated ice and water through the Neva, what would have been the result?" "Would the city have been destroyed?" queried one of the youths. "So it is said, by many who have studied its position. They aver that when a high tide, a westerly wind, and the breaking up of the ice in Lake Ladoga shall all come together, the streets of St. Petersburg will be not less than twenty feet under water, and Russia will be obliged to select another site for her capital. But as it is not likely that all these things will happen during our visit, we won't borrow any trouble about the matter." "I have read," said Fred, "that in that inundation the prisoners in the fort were drowned in their cells. The lower part of the fort was flooded, was it not?" "Yes," the Doctor answered; "but so many romances have been written on the subject that it is difficult to get at the exact truth. It is very likely that the prisoners in the lower cells of the fort were drowned, and I believe the authorities admit that such was the case. In the Paris Exhibition of 1867 there was a startling picture representing the death of a Russian princess who was imprisoned there at the time. She is represented standing on her little bed surrounded by rats that have been driven from their holes by the flood. The water is nearly up to the level of the bed, and is pouring in at the grated window. The picture haunted me for years after I saw it, and even now it occasionally comes up in my dreams. I haven't thought of it for some time, but this question of yours has revived it." [Illustration: STATUE OF PETER THE GREAT.] They continued their walk towards the Neva, with an occasional glance at the needle-like spire that rises above the Admiralty buildings. They came out into Admiralty Square, a large open space, which gave them a view of the Admiralty buildings, the Church of St. Isaac, the equestrian statue of Peter the Great, and the Winter Palace, together with one of the bridges spanning the Neva to the islands opposite. "Which shall we see first?" queried the Doctor of his young companions. "Whichever you think best," answered Frank, to which Fred nodded approval. "Our time just now is limited," said the Doctor, "and perhaps we will satisfy ourselves with the statue of Peter the Great. But as we walk about we must not fail to take in the general view, which is of unusual interest." The statue is well known through its frequent representation in engravings, and is one of the most remarkable monuments of the Imperial city. It was ordered by the Empress Catherine, and was cast by Falconet, a Frenchman. The inscription upon it reads-- "PETRU PERVOMU.--EKATERINA VTORYA." (_To Peter I.--By Catherine II._, MDCCLXXXII.) Evidently Catherine had a sufficient idea of her consequence, as the letters which make her name are considerably larger than those of her illustrious sire's. "The horse," said Fred, in his note-book, "is on the brink of a precipice, where he is being reined in by his rider. Peter's face is towards the Neva, while his right hand is directed to the city which he built. Under the horse's feet is a serpent, which typifies the difficulties the Czar has overcome. The horse is balanced on his hind legs and tail, his forefeet being clear from the rock. It is said that the weight of the statue is about ten thousand pounds. "The statue stands on a block of granite that originally weighed fifteen hundred tons, and was brought from Finland. The block is fourteen feet high, twenty feet broad, and forty-three feet long. It consists of two pieces that have been carefully joined together, and the operation of moving it was a triumph of engineering skill. "I have read a good story apropos of this monument--about two boys who belonged to an English ship that was lying at the quay beyond the statue. They had wandered off into the city and lost their way, and in order to get back they engaged a carriage. But after engaging it they were in trouble, as they could not tell the driver where to go. "Two sailors from the same ship happened along, and to them the boys told the story of their perplexity. The sailors were in the same predicament, as they wanted to get back to the ship, and didn't know which way to go. [Illustration: IMPROVISING A STATUE.] "'If we only knew what the Russian is for that statue,' said one of the boys, 'we could make him understand.' "They tried all the words they knew, but to no purpose. Suddenly an idea occurred to one of the sailors. He asked the other to get down on all-fours, which he did, wondering what was the matter with his comrade. Jack mounted his friend's back as though he were a steed, and took the attitude of Peter the Great as nearly as he could remember it. The other sailor caught at the idea, and reared slightly on his feet in the position of Peter's horse. The isvoshchiks comprehended what was wanted, and roared with delight; the two sailors jumped into a drosky, which followed the carriage containing the boys, and in due time the party arrived safely at its destination." CHAPTER IV. DINNER IN A RUSSIAN RESTAURANT.--CABBAGE SOUP, FISH PIES, AND OTHER ODD DISHES.--THE _SAMOVAR_ AND ITS USES.--RUSSIAN TEA-DRINKERS.--_JOLTAI CHAI_.--ALEXANDER'S COLUMN.--FORTRESS OF STS. PETER AND PAUL.--IMPERIAL ASSASSINATIONS.--SKETCHES OF THE PEOPLE.--RUSSIAN POLICE AND THEIR WAYS. Instead of returning to the hotel for dinner, our friends went to a _traktir_, or Russian restaurant, in a little street running out of Admiralty Square. The youths were anxious to try the national dishes of the country, and consequently they accepted with pleasure Doctor Bronson's suggestion relative to their dining-place. "The finest and most characteristic restaurants of Russia are in Moscow rather than in St. Petersburg," said the Doctor, as he led the way to the establishment they had decided to patronize. "St. Petersburg has a great many French and German features that you do not find in Moscow, and when we get to the latter city we must not fail to go to the 'Moskovski Traktir,' which is one of the most celebrated feeding-places of the old capital. There the waiters are clad in silk shirts, or frocks, extending nearly to the knee, over loose trousers of the same material. At the establishment where we are now going the dress is that of the ordinary French restaurant, and we shall have no difficulty in finding some one who speaks either French or German." They found the lower room of the restaurant filled with men solacing themselves with tea, which they drank from glasses filled and refilled from pots standing before them. On each table was a steaming _samovar_ to supply boiling water to the teapots as fast as they were emptied. The boys had seen the _samovar_ at railway-stations and other places since their entrance into the Empire, but had not thus far enjoyed the opportunity of examining it. [Illustration: TEA-SELLERS IN THE STREETS.] "We will have a _samovar_ to ourselves," said the Doctor, as they mounted the stairs to an upper room, "and then you can study it as closely as you like." The Russian bill of fare was too much for the reading abilities of any one of the trio. The Doctor could spell out some of the words, but found they would get along better by appealing to one of the waiters. Under his guidance they succeeded very well, as we learn from Frank's account of the dinner. "Doctor Bronson told us that cabbage soup was the national dish of the country, and so we ordered it, under the mysterious name of _tschee e karsha_. The cabbage is chopped, and then boiled till it falls into shreds; a piece of meat is cooked with it; the soup is seasoned with pepper and salt; and altogether the _tschee_ (soup) is decidedly palatable. _Karsha_, is barley thoroughly boiled, and then dried over the fire until the grains fall apart. A saucerful of this cooked barley is supplied to you along with the soup, and you eat them together. You may mingle the _karsha_ with the _tschee_ as you would mix rice with milk, but the orthodox way of eating is to take a small quantity of the _karsha_ into your spoon each time before dipping it into the soup. A substantial meal can be made of these articles alone, and there are millions of the subjects of his Imperial Majesty the Czar who dine to-day and many other days in the year on nothing else. The Emperor eats _tschee_, and so does the peasant--probably the Emperor has it less often in the year than does his poor subject; but the soup is of the same kind, except that very often the peasant cannot afford the important addition of meat." [Illustration: RUSSIAN RESTAURANT AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION.] "Don't forget," Fred interposed, when the foregoing description was read to him--"don't forget to say that they served us a little cup or mug of sour cream along with the _tschee_." "Yes, that's so," responded Frank; "but I didn't like it particularly, and therefore came near forgetting it. We remember best the things that please us." "Then perhaps you didn't like the _zakushka_, or appetizer, before dinner," said the Doctor, "as I see you haven't mentioned it." "I hadn't forgotten it," said the youth, "but was going to say something about it at the end. You know the preface of a book is always written after the rest of the volume has been completed, but as you've called attention to it, I'll dispose of it now. Here it is: "There was a side-table, on which were several plates containing relishes of different kinds, such as caviare, raw herring, dried beef, smoked salmon cut in little strips or squares, radishes, cheese, butter, and tiny sandwiches about the size of a half-dollar. A glass of cordial, of which several kinds were offered, goes with the _zakushka_ for those who like it; the cordial and a few morsels of the solid things are supposed to sharpen the appetite and prepare it for the dinner which is to be eaten at the table. [Illustration: AN OUT-DOOR TEA-PARTY.] "The _zakushka_ is inseparable from a dinner in Russia, and belongs to it just as much as do any of the dishes that are served after the seats are taken. While we were standing around the side-table where it was served at our first dinner in St. Petersburg, Doctor Bronson told us a story that is too good to be lost. I'll try to give it in his words: "There was once a Russian soldier who had a phenomenal appetite; he could eat an incredible quantity of food at a sitting, and the officers of his regiment used to make wagers with strangers about his feeding abilities. They generally won; and as the soldier always received a present when he had gained a bet, he exerted himself to the best of his ability. "One day the colonel made a wager for a large amount that his man could eat an entire sheep at a sitting. The sheep was selected, slaughtered, and sent to a restaurant, and at the appointed time the colonel appeared with the soldier. In order to help the man along, the keeper of the restaurant had cooked the different parts of the sheep in various ways; there were broiled and fried cutlets, roasted and boiled quarters, and some stews and hashes made from the rest. Dish after dish disappeared. When almost the entire sheep had been devoured, the soldier turned to the colonel and said, "'If you give me so much _zakushka_ I'm afraid I sha'n't be able to eat all of the sheep when they bring it.'" "But to return to soups. In addition to _tschee_, the Russians have _ukha_, or fish soup, made of any kind of fish that is in season. The most expensive is made from sterlet, a fish that is found only in the Volga, and sometimes sells for its weight in silver. We tried it one day, and liked it very much, but it costs too much for frequent eating except by the wealthy. A very good fish soup is made from trout, and another from perch. "After the soup we had a _pirog_, or pie made of the spinal cord of the sturgeon cut into little pieces about half as large as a pea. It resembles isinglass in appearance and is very toothsome. The pie is baked in a deep dish, with two crusts, an upper and an under one. Doctor Bronson says the Russians make all kinds of fish into pies and patties, very much as we make meat pies at home. They sometimes put raisins in these pies--a practice which seems very incongruous to Americans and English. They also make _solianka_, a dish composed of fish and cabbage, and not at all bad when one is hungry; red or black pepper liberally applied is an improvement. "What do you think of _okroshka_--a soup made of cold beer, with pieces of meat, cucumber, and red herrings floating in it along with bits of ice to keep it cool? Don't want any. Neither do we; but the Russians of the lower classes like it, and I have heard Russian gentlemen praise it. Many of them are fond of _batvenia_, which is a cold soup made in much the same way as _okroshka_, and about as unpalatable to us. We ordered a portion of _okroshka_ just to see how it looked and tasted. One teaspoonful was enough for each of us, and _batvenia_ we didn't try. "After the _pirog_ we had cutlets of chicken, and then roast mutton stuffed with buckwheat, both of them very good. They offered us some boiled pig served cold, with horseradish sauce, but we didn't try it; and then they brought roast grouse, with salted cucumbers for salad. We wound up with Nesselrode pudding, made of plum-pudding and ices, and not unknown in other countries. Then we had the _samovar_, which had been made ready for us, and drank some delicious tea which we prepared ourselves. Now for the _samovar_. [Illustration: RUSSIAN MUJIKS DRINKING TEA.] "Its name comes from two words which mean 'self-boiling;' and the _samovar_ is nothing but an urn of brass or copper, with a cylinder in the centre, where a fire is made with charcoal. The water surrounds the cylinder, and is thus kept at the boiling-point, which the Russians claim is indispensable to the making of good tea. The beverage is drank not from cups, but from glasses, and the number of glasses it will contain is the measure of a _samovar_. The Russians rarely put milk with their tea; the common people never do so, and the upper classes only when they have acquired the habit while abroad. They rarely dissolve sugar in their tea, but nibble from a lump after taking a swallow of the liquid. A peasant will make a single lump serve for four or five glasses of tea, and it is said to be an odd sensation for a stranger to hear the nibbling and grating of lumps of sugar when a party of Russians is engaged in tea-drinking. "We sat late over the _samovar_, and then paid our bill and returned to the Square. Doctor Bronson told us that an enormous quantity of tea is consumed in Russia, but very little coffee. Formerly all the tea used in the Empire was brought overland from China by way of Siberia, and the business enabled the importers of tea to accumulate great fortunes. Down to 1860 only one cargo of tea annually was brought into Russia by sea, all the rest of the importation being through the town of Kiachta, on the frontier of Mongolia. Since 1860 the ports of the Empire have been opened to tea brought from China by water, and the trade of Kiachta has greatly diminished. But it is still very large, and long trains of sledges come every winter through Siberia laden with the tea which has been brought to Kiachta on the backs of camels from the districts where it is grown. [Illustration: PLANT FROM WHICH YELLOW TEA IS MADE.] "There is one kind of the Chinese herb, called _joltai chai_ (yellow tea), which is worth at retail about fifteen dollars a pound. It is said to be made from the blossom of the tea-plant, and is very difficult to find out of Russia, as all that is produced comes here for a market. We each had a cup of this tea to finish our dinner with, and nothing more delicious was ever served from a teapot. The infusion is a pale yellow, or straw-color, and to look at appears weak enough, but it is unsafe to take more than one cup if you do not wish to be kept awake all night. Its aroma fills the room when it is poured out. All the pens in the world cannot describe the song of the birds or the perfume of the flowers, and so my pen is unable to tell you about the aroma and taste of _joltai chai_. We'll get a small box of the best and send it home for you to try." It was so late in the day when our friends had finished their dinner and returned to the Square, that there was not much time left for sight-seeing. They were in front of the Winter Palace and St. Isaac's Church, but decided to leave them until another day. Fred's attention was drawn to a tall column between the Winter Palace and a crescent of lofty buildings called the _État-major_, or staff headquarters, and he asked the Doctor what it was. [Illustration: COLUMN IN MEMORY OF ALEXANDER I.] "That is the Alexander Column," was the reply to the question. "It is one of the largest monoliths or single shafts of modern times, and was erected in 1832 in memory of Alexander I." "What a splendid column!" said Frank. "I wonder how high it is." Thereupon the youths fell to guessing at the height of the column. After they had made their estimates--neither of them near the mark but considerably below it--Doctor Bronson gave them its dimensions. "The shaft, without pedestal or capital, is fourteen feet in diameter and eighty-four feet high; it was originally one hundred and two feet high, but was reduced through fear that its length was out of proportion to its diameter. The base and pedestal are one single block of red granite about twenty-five feet high, and the capital is sixteen feet high. The angel above the capital is fourteen feet tall, and the cross in the hands of the angel is seven feet above it. With the platform on which it rests, the whole structure rises one hundred and fifty-four feet from the level of the ground." "They must have had a hard time to make the foundations in this marshy ground," one of the boys remarked. "They drove six rows of piling there, one after the other, before getting a foundation to suit them," said the Doctor. "The shaft alone, which was put up in the rough and finished afterwards, is thought to weigh about four hundred tons, and the pedestal and base nearly as much more. Unfortunately the shaft has suffered from the effects of the severe climate, and may be destroyed at no distant day. Several cracks have been made by the frost, and though they have been carefully cemented, they continue to increase in size. Pieces have fallen from the surface of the stone in the same way that they have fallen from the Egyptian obelisk in New York, and it is very evident that the climate of St. Petersburg is unfriendly to monuments of granite." The bronze on the pedestal and capital is from Turkish cannon which were melted down for the purpose. The only inscription is in the few words, "TO ALEXANDER THE FIRST, GRATEFUL RUSSIA." Frank made a sketch of the monument together with the buildings of the _État-major_ and a company of soldiers that marched past the foot of the column. Doctor Bronson said the soldiers belonged to the guard of the palace, where they had been on duty through the day, and had just been relieved. From the column and the buildings surrounding it the trio of strangers walked to the bank of the river and watched the boats on the water, where the setting sun slanted in long rays and filled the air with the mellow light peculiar to high latitudes near the close of day. It was early in September, and already the evening air had a touch of coolness about it. St. Petersburg is in latitude 60° North, and consequently is quite near the Arctic Circle. Doctor Bronson told the youths that if they had come there in July they would have found very little night, the sun setting not far from ten o'clock and rising about two. In the four hours of night there is almost continuous twilight; and by mounting to the top of a high building at midnight one can see the position of the sun below the northern horizon. Any one who goes to bed after sunset and rises before sunrise would have very little sleep in St. Petersburg in summer. "On the other hand," said the Doctor, "the nights of winter are very long. Winter is the gay season here, as the city is deserted by fashionable people in summer, and one is not expected to make visits. The Imperial court goes away; the Emperor has a palace at Yalta in the Crimea, and there he passes the autumn months, unless kept in St. Petersburg or Moscow by the affairs of the nation. They have some public festivities here in summer, but not generally, most of the matters of this kind being reserved for the winter." [Illustration: PETER THE GREAT.] Boats were moving in all directions on the placid waters of the river, darting beneath the magnificent bridge that stretches across the stream, and carrying little parties, who sought recreation or were on errands of business. On the opposite side of the Neva, and beyond the Winter Palace, was the grim fortress of Sts. Peter and Paul, with whose history many tales of horror are connected, and where numerous prisoners of greater or less note have been confined. "It was there," said Doctor Bronson, "that Peter the Great caused his son Alexis to be put to death." "Caused his son to be put to death!" exclaimed the youths together. "Yes, it is generally believed that such was the case," the Doctor answered, "though the fact is not actually known. Alexis, the son of Peter the Great, was opposed to his father's reforms, and devotedly attached to the old superstitions and customs of Russia. Peter decided to exclude him from the throne; the son consented, and announced his desire to enter a monastery, from which he managed to escape to Austria, where he sought the protection of the Emperor of that country. Peter sent one of his generals in pursuit of Alexis; by a combination of threats and promises he was induced to return to St. Petersburg, where he was thrown into prison, and afterwards tried for high-treason and condemned to death. Peter pardoned but did not release him. On the 7th of July, 1718, he died suddenly, and it was and is now generally believed that he was poisoned or beheaded by his father's order." "And was he really guilty of high-treason?" Fred asked. "According to Russian law and custom, and particularly according to the law and custom of Peter the Great, he certainly was," Doctor Bronson replied. "Remember, the Emperor is autocratic in his power, at least in theory, and in Peter's time he was so actually. The will of the founder of the Russian Empire was law; Alexis was opposed to that will, and consequently opposed to the Imperial law. The progress of Russia was more in the eyes of Peter than the life of any human being, not even excepting his own son, and the legitimate heir to the throne. The proceedings of the trial were published by Peter as a justification of his act. [Illustration: ASSASSINATION OF PETER III.] "Peter II., the son of Alexis and grandson of the great Peter, died suddenly, at the age of fifteen; Peter III., grandchild of Peter the Great through his daughter Anna, was the husband of the Empress Catherine II.; but his reign was very short. His life with Catherine was not the happiest in the world, and in less than eight months after he became Emperor she usurped the throne, deposed her husband, and caused him to be strangled. Catherine was a German princess, but declared herself thoroughly Russian when she came to reside in the Empire. If history is correct, she made a better ruler than the man she put aside, but this can be no justification of her means of attaining power. [Illustration: PAUL I.] "Her son, Paul I., followed the fate of his father in being assassinated, but it was not by her orders. She brought him up in complete ignorance of public affairs, and compelled him to live away from the Imperial court. Until her death, in 1796, she kept him in retirement, although she had his sons taken to court and educated under her immediate supervision. Treatment like this was calculated to make him whimsical and revengeful, and when he became emperor he tried to undo every act of his mother and those about her. He disbanded her armies, made peace with the countries with which she was at war, reversed her policy in everything, and became a most bitter tyrant towards his own people. He issued absurd orders, and at length his acts bordered on insanity. "A conspiracy was formed among some of the noblemen, who represented to his son Alexander that it was necessary to secure the abdication of his father on the ground of incapacity. Late at night, March 23d, 1801, they went to his bedroom and presented a paper for him to sign. He refused, and was then strangled by the conspirators. Alexander I. was proclaimed emperor, and the announcement of Paul's death was hailed with delight by his oppressed subjects. Among the foolish edicts he issued was one which forbade the wearing of round hats. Within an hour after his death became known, great numbers of round hats were to be seen on the streets. "You've had enough of the history of the Imperial family of Russia for the present," said the Doctor, after a pause, "and now we'll look at the people on the streets. It is getting late, and we'll go to the hotel, making our observations on the way. [Illustration: RUSSIAN AND FINN.] "Here are distinct types of the inhabitants of the Empire," the Doctor remarked, as they passed two men who seemed to be in animated conversation. "The man with the round cap and long coat is a Russian peasant, while the one with the hood over his head and falling down to his shoulders is a Finn, or native of Finland." "How far is it from here to Finland?" Frank asked. "Only over the river," the Doctor replied. "You cross the Neva to its opposite bank, and you are in what was once the independent duchy of Finland, but has long been incorporated with Russia. When Peter the Great came here he did not like to be so near a foreign country, and so made up his mind to convert Finland into Russian territory. The independence of the duchy was maintained for some time, but in the early part of the present century Russia defeated the armies of Finland, and the country was permanently occupied. Finland has its constitution, which is based on that of Sweden, and when it was united with Russia the constitutional rights of the people were guaranteed. The country is ruled by a governor-general, who is appointed by Russia; it has a parliament for presenting the grievances and wishes of the people, but all acts must receive the approval of the Imperial Government before they can become the law of the land." [Illustration: DVORNIK AND POSTMAN.] "What are those men standing in front of a building?" said Fred, as he pointed to a fellow with a broom talking with another in uniform. "The one in uniform is a postman," was the reply, "and the other is a _dvornik_, or house guardian. The _dvornik_ sweeps the sidewalk in front of a house and looks after the entrance; he corresponds to the porter, or _portier_, of other countries, and is supposed to know the names of all the tenants of the building. The postman is reading an address on a letter, and the _dvornik_ is probably pointing in the direction of the room occupied by the person to whom the missive belongs." "I have read that letters in Russia are examined by the police before they are delivered," said one of the boys. "Is that really the case?" "Formerly it was, or at least they were liable to examination, and it probably happens often enough at the present time. If a man is suspected of treasonable practices his correspondence is liable to be seized; unless there is a serious charge against him, it is not detained after examination, provided it contains nothing objectionable. The Post-office, like everything else in Russia, is a part of the military system, and if the Government wishes to do anything with the letters of its subjects it generally does it. The correspondence of foreigners is rarely meddled with. Writers for the foreign newspapers sometimes complain that their letters are lost in the mails, or show signs of having been opened, but I fancy that these cases are rare. For one, I haven't the least fear that our letters will be troubled, as we have no designs upon Russia other than to see it. If we were plotting treason, or had communications with Russian and Polish revolutionists in France or Switzerland, it is probable that the Government would not be long in finding it out." "What would happen to us, supposing that to be the case?" Frank inquired. "Supposing it to be so for the sake of argument," the Doctor answered, "our treatment would depend much upon the circumstances. If we were Russians, we should probably be arrested and imprisoned; but as we are foreigners, we should be asked to leave the country. Unless the matter is very serious, the authorities do not like to meddle with foreigners in any way that will lead to a dispute with another government, and their quickest way out of the difficulty is to expel the obnoxious visitor." "How would they go to work to expel us?" [Illustration: LODGINGS AT THE FRONTIER.] "An officer would call at our lodgings and tell us our passports were ready for our departure. He would probably say that the train for the frontier leaves at 11 A.M. to-morrow, and he would expect us to go by that train. If the case was urgent, he would probably tell us we must go by that train, and he would be at the hotel at ten o'clock to escort us to it. He would take us to the train and accompany us to the frontier, where he would gracefully say good-by, and wish us a pleasant journey to our homes. If matters were less serious, he would allow us two or three days, perhaps a week, to close our affairs; all would depend upon his orders, and whatever they were they would be carried out. [Illustration: ORDERED TO LEAVE RUSSIA.] "Before the days of the railways objectionable parties were taken to the frontier in carriages or sleighs, the Government paying the expense of the posting; and no matter what the hour of arrival at the boundary, they were set down and left to take care of themselves. An Englishman who had got himself into trouble with the Government in the time of the Emperor Nicholas, tells how he was dropped just over the boundary in Prussia in the middle of a dark and rainy night, and left standing in the road with his baggage, fully a mile from any house. The officer who accompanied him was ordered to escort him over the frontier, and did it exactly. Probably his passenger was a trifle obstinate, or he would not have been left in such a plight. A little politeness, and possibly a few shillings in money, would have induced the officer to bring him to the boundary in the daytime, and in the neighborhood of a habitation. "Expelled foreigners have rarely any cause to complain of the incivility of their escorts. I know a Frenchman who was thus taken to the frontier after a notice of two days, and he told me that he could not have received greater civility if he had been the guest of the Emperor, and going to St. Petersburg instead of from it. He added that he tried to outdo his guardians in politeness, and further admitted that he richly deserved expulsion, as he had gone to the Empire on a revolutionary mission. On the whole, he considered himself fortunate to have escaped so easily." The conversation led to anecdotes about the police system of Russia, and at their termination our friends found themselves at the door of the hotel. Naturally, they shifted to other topics as soon as they were in the presence of others. It was an invariable rule of our friends not to discuss in the hearing of any one else the politics of the countries they were visiting. CHAPTER V. NUMBER AND CHARACTER OF THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE.--PAN-SLAVIC UNION.--ST. ISAAC'S CHURCH.--ITS HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION.--THE WINTER PALACE AND THE HERMITAGE.--SIGHTS IN THE PALACE.--CATHERINE'S RULES FOR HER RECEPTIONS.--JOHN PAUL JONES IN RUSSIA.--THE CROWN JEWELS AND THE ORLOFF DIAMOND.--ANECDOTES OF THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS.--RELICS OF PETER THE GREAT.--FROM PALACE TO PRISON.--TOMBS OF RUSSIA'S EMPERORS.--A MONUMENT AND AN ANECDOTE. When the subject of the police was dropped by our friends, Frank asked a question about the Russian people and their origin. The Doctor answered that the topic was a broad one, as the Empire contained more than a hundred different nations and tribes of people, and that they spoke forty distinct languages. Many of the smaller tribes were assimilating with the Russians and losing their distinctiveness, even though they preserved their language; but this was by no means the case throughout the Empire. "Not in Poland, I think," said Frank, "judging by what we saw and heard, and probably not in Finland." "Quite right," added Doctor Bronson; "and the same is the case with the German population in the Baltic provinces. Though they have long been an integral part of the Empire, there are thousands of the inhabitants who cannot speak Russian, and refuse to teach it to their children. They are less revolutionary in their ways than the Poles, but none the less desirous of preserving their national characteristics. "The population of Russia is about one hundred millions," he continued, "and it is spread over an area of nearly if not quite seven million square miles of land. Russia occupies about one-eighth of the land surface of the globe, but is very thinly inhabited. European Russia, including Poland, Finland, and other provinces, covers two millions of square miles, while Siberia, or European Asia, extends over at least five millions. This does not include the disputed territory of the last few years in Central Asia. It is pretty certain to come under the rule of the Emperor, and will add another half-million, if not more, to his dominions. [Illustration: FINLAND PEASANTS IN HOLIDAY COSTUME.] "The inhabitants are very unevenly distributed, as they average one hundred and twenty-seven to the square mile in Poland, and less than two to the mile in Asiatic Russia. About sixty millions belong to the Slavic race, which includes the Russians and Poles, and also a few colonies of Servians and Bulgarians, which amount in all to less than one hundred thousand. The identity of the Servians and Bulgarians with the Slavic race has been the excuse, if not the reason, for the repeated attempts of Russia to unite Servia, Bulgaria, and the other Danubian principalities with the grand Empire. The union of the Slavic people under one government has been the dream of the emperors of Russia for a long time, and what could be a better union, they argue, than their absorption into our own nation?" Fred asked who the Slavs were, and whence they came. [Illustration: INHABITANTS OF SOUTHERN RUSSIA.] "According to those who have studied the subject," Doctor Bronson answered, "they were anciently known as Scythians or Sarmatians. Their early history is much obscured, but they seem to have had their centre around the Carpathian Mountains, whence they spread to the four points of the compass. On the north they reached to the Baltic; westward, they went to the banks of the Elbe; southward, beyond the Danube; and eastward, their progress was impeded by the Tartar hordes of Asia, and they did not penetrate far into Siberia until comparatively recent times. With their extension they split up into numerous tribes and independent organizations; thus their unity was lost, and they took the form in which we find them to-day. Poles and Russians are both of the same race, and their languages have a common origin; but nowhere in the world can be found two people who hate each other more heartily. However much the Russians have favored a Pan-Slavist union, you may be sure the Poles look on it with disfavor. "The ancient Slavonic language has given way to the modern forms in the same way that Latin has made way for French, Italian, Spanish, and other tongues and dialects with a Latin origin. In fact those languages hold the same relation to Latin that Polish, Russian, Servian, and Bulgarian hold towards ancient Slavonic. The Romish Church uses Latin in its service, and the Russo-Greek Church uses the old Slavonic; the Poles, Bohemians, and others have adopted the Roman alphabet, but the Russians use the Slavonic characters in a modified form. The Russian alphabet has thirty-six letters, some being Roman, others Greek, and others Slavonic. After you have learned the alphabet and can spell out the signs on the shops and street corners, I'll tell you more about the language." It was getting late, and the party broke up a few minutes after the foregoing conversation. Before they separated, Doctor Bronson suggested to the youths that he should expect them to read up the history of Russia, and not forget the Romanoff family. "The Romanoffs," said he, "are the reigning family of Russia, just as the Guelphs are of England and the Hapsburgs of Austria." It was speedily arranged that Frank would devote special attention to the first-named subject, while Fred would assume the responsibilities of the latter. "And while you are on the subject," the Doctor added, turning to Fred, "see if you can find about the origin of the Orloff family, which is one of the most interesting traditions that has been handed down." Fred promised, and the party separated for the night. They were all up in good season the next morning, and after a substantial breakfast, in which the _samovar_ had a prominent place, they set out for a round of sight-seeing in the modern capital of Russia. [Illustration: ST. ISAAC'S CHURCH AND ADMIRALTY SQUARE.] Returning to Admiralty Square, they visited the Church of St. Isaac, accompanied by the guide they had engaged at the hotel. The man was of Russian birth, and spoke English with considerable fluency. Evidently he understood his business, as he told the history of the sacred edifice with a careful adherence to dates. "Peter the Great built a wooden church on this very spot," said the guide, "in 1710, but it was destroyed by fire. Afterwards the great Catherine erected another, which was finished in 1801; but it only remained eighteen years. The present building was begun in 1819, and its completion took nearly forty years. It was consecrated in 1858, and is considered the finest church in the Empire." "The last statement might be disputed by some of the citizens of Moscow," said the Doctor to the youths, "but there is no question about the church being the finest in St. Petersburg. Observe its admirable proportions," he continued. "It is in the form of a Greek cross, with its four sides of equal length, and the architect who planned it certainly had a correct eye for his work." "You observe," said the guide, "that each of the four entrances is approached by three flights of stone steps, leading up from the level of the square. Each of these flights of steps is cut from a single block of Finland granite." The youths made note of this fact as they wondered how the huge masses of stone were brought from their quarries; and they also noted that the four entrances of the church were between pillars of granite sixty feet high and seven feet in diameter, polished to the smoothness of a mirror. An immense dome forms the centre of the edifice. It is of iron, covered on the outside with copper, and this copper is heavily plated with pure gold. It is the dome which first caught the eyes of the travellers as they approached the city, and forms an important landmark from every direction. The cupola rests on thirty granite pillars, which look small enough when seen from below, but are really of great size. [Illustration: PRIEST OF THE CHURCH OF ST. ISAAC.] In the inside of the church are paintings by Russian artists, and there are two columns of malachite fifty feet high, and of proportionate diameter--the largest columns of this costly mineral anywhere in the world. Immense quantities of malachite, lapis-lazuli, and other valuable stones are used in the decoration of the church, and our friends thought that if there was anything to criticise it was the great amount of ornamentation and gilding in the interior. "But I have no doubt," wrote Fred in his note-book, "that this display has its effect upon the worshippers in the church, and particularly among the poor peasants and all others of the humbler classes. In all the countries we have visited, whether of the Christian, Moslem, Buddhist, or other faith, we have found the religious edifices adorned in the most costly manner, and there is no reason why Russia should form an exception to the general rule. Many of the paintings, columns, and other decorations of this church were the gift of wealthy Russians, while others were paid for by the contributions of the people, or from the funds in Government hands." From the Church of St. Isaac our friends went to the Hermitage and the Winter Palace, the latter being named in contradistinction to the Summer Palace, which is at Tsarskoe-Selo, a few miles from the capital. We will see what the youths had to say of their visit to these edifices. Fred will tell the story. [Illustration: CATHERINE II. OF RUSSIA.] "To describe all we saw there would take a fair-sized volume," said Fred, "and we will only tell what impressed us most. The palace was built in a great hurry, to take the place of the one that was burned in 1837. It was ready for occupation in 1839; and when you know that it is four hundred and fifty feet long by three hundred and fifty wide, and rises to a height of eighty feet, you will agree with us that the Russians are to be praised for their energy. Our guide had procured the necessary ticket for admittance, and we passed in through an enormous gate-way opposite the Column of Alexander. Two servants in livery showed us through the halls and galleries, and for hours we wandered among pictures which represent the victories of Russia over its enemies, and amid costly furniture and adornments, till our feet and eyes were weary. The Throne-room of Peter the Great is one of the finest of the apartments, and the Hall of St. George is the largest. It measures one hundred and forty feet by sixty, and is the scene of the grand balls and receptions which the Emperor gives on state occasions. There is a beautiful apartment, known as the drawing-room of the Empress. Its walls and ceiling are gilded, and the whole work about it seems to have been done without regard to expense. "One of the halls contains portraits of the rulers of Russia from Peter the Great down to the present time; another, the portraits of the generals who fought against the French in 1812; another, the portraits of all the field-marshals of the armies by which Napoleon was conquered; and others, the battle-scenes before mentioned. I observed that Russia was not unlike France, Germany, and other countries in representing very prominently the battles where she triumphed, and ignoring those where she was defeated. The guide told us that at the state balls in the palace sit-down suppers are provided for all the guests, even if there are two or three thousand of them. Sometimes the supper-hall is converted into a garden by means of trees brought from greenhouses. The guests sit at table beneath the foliage, and can easily forget that they are in the middle of a Russian winter. "Doctor Bronson says the Russians are very fond of plants in their dwellings, the wealthy expending large sums on greenhouses and conservatories, and the poorer people indulging in flower-pots, which they place in all available spots. The wealthy frequently pay enormous prices for rare exotics. We have seen a good many flower-stores along the Nevski Prospect and in other streets, and are ready to believe that the Russians are great admirers of floral products. Their long, cold, and cheerless winters lead them to prize anything that can remind them of the summer season. "At the entrance of one of the halls there is a tablet on which are the rules which Catherine II. established for the informal parties she used to have at the Hermitage. Catherine had literary aspirations, and her parties were in imitation of the _salons_ of Paris, which have a wide celebrity. Here is a translation of the rules, which I take from Murray's 'Hand-book:' "'1. Leave your rank outside, as well as your hat, and especially your sword. "'2. Leave your right of precedence, your pride, and any similar feeling, outside the door. "'3. Be gay, but do not spoil anything; do not break or gnaw anything. "'4. Sit, stand, walk as you will, without reference to anybody. "'5. Talk moderately and not very loud, so as not to make the ears and heads of others ache. "'6. Argue without anger and without excitement. "'7. Neither sigh nor yawn, nor make anybody dull or heavy. "'8. In all innocent games, whatever one proposes, let all join. "'9. Eat whatever is sweet and savory, but drink with moderation, so that each may find his legs on leaving the room. "'10. Tell no tales out of school; whatever goes in at one ear must go out at the other before leaving the room. "'A transgressor against these rules shall, on the testimony of two witnesses, for every offence drink a glass of cold water, not excepting the ladies, and further read a page of the "Telemachiade" aloud. "'Whoever breaks any three of these rules during the same evening shall commit six lines of the "Telemachiade" to memory. "'And whoever offends against the tenth rule shall not again be admitted.' "The 'Telemachiade' which is prescribed as a penance was the work of a Russian poet of Catherine's time, who does not seem to have enjoyed the Imperial favor. It is said that invitations to these parties were much sought; but, in spite of all her efforts, the Empress could not induce her guests to forget entirely that she was their sovereign. However, she managed to make her parties much less formal than anything ever known before at the Imperial Palace, and this was a great deal to accomplish in such a time and in such a country. [Illustration: RECEPTION OF JOHN PAUL JONES BY THE EMPRESS CATHERINE.] "I may remark, by-the-way, that the Empress Catherine was the first sovereign of Russia to invite an American officer into the Imperial service. That officer was the celebrated John Paul Jones, a Scotchman by birth but an American citizen at the time of the Revolutionary war. The havoc he wrought upon the British fleets attracted the attention of the Russian Government, and after our war was over he received an intimation that he could find employment with the armies of the Empress. He went to St. Petersburg, was received by Catherine at a special audience, and accorded the rank of admiral in the Imperial Navy. Russia was then at war with Turkey. Admiral Jones was sent to command the Russian fleet in the Black Sea, and operate against the Turkish fleet, which he did in his old way. [Illustration: RUSSIAN ATTACK ON THE TURKISH GALLEY.] "The Russians were besieging a town which was held by the Turks, who had a fleet of ships supporting their land-forces. Jones dashed in among the Turkish vessels with a boarding-party in small boats, backed by the guns of his ships and those of the besieging army. He captured two of the Turkish galleys, one of them belonging to the commander of the fleet, and made such havoc among the enemy that the latter was thoroughly frightened. Unfortunately, Jones incurred the displeasure of Potemkin, the Prime-minister, and favorite of the Empress, and shortly after the defeat of the fleet he was removed from command and sent to the Baltic, where there was no enemy to operate against. "But I am neglecting the palace in following the career of an American in the service of Russia. [Illustration: THE ORLOFF DIAMOND.] "We asked to see the crown jewels of Russia, and the guide took us to the room where they are kept. One of the most famous diamonds of the world, the Orloff, is among them, and its history is mixed up with a good deal of fable. The most authentic story about this diamond seems to be that it formed the eye of an idol in a temple in India, whence it was stolen by a French soldier, who sold it for two thousand guineas. It then came to Europe, and after changing hands several times was bought by Prince Orloff, who presented it to the Empress Catherine. The Prince is said to have given for the diamond four hundred and fifty thousand rubles (about four hundred thousand dollars), a life annuity of two thousand rubles, and a patent of nobility. It weighs more than the famous Koh-i-noor of England, but is not as fine a stone. There is a faint tinge of yellow that depreciates it considerably, and there is also a flaw in the interior of the stone, though only perceptible on a careful examination. "The Imperial crown of Russia is the most interesting crown we have anywhere seen. The guide told us how much it was worth in money, but I've forgotten, the figures being so large that my head wouldn't contain them. There are rubies, diamonds, and pearls in great profusion, the diamonds alone being among the most beautiful in the world. There are nearly, if not quite, a hundred large diamonds in the crown, not to mention the smaller ones that fill the spaces where large ones could not go. The coronet of the Empress is another mass of precious stones worth a long journey to see. There are other jewels here of great value, among them a plume or aigrette, which was presented to General Suwarroff by the Sultan of Turkey. It is covered with diamonds mounted on wires that bend with each movement of the wearer. What a sensation Suwarroff must have made when he walked or rode with this plume in his hat! "From the crown jewels we went to a room whose history is connected with a scene of sadness--the death of the Emperor Nicholas. It is the smallest and plainest room of the palace, without any adornment, and containing an iron bedstead such as we find in a military barrack. His cloak, sword, and helmet are where he left them, and on the table is the report of the quartermaster of the household troops, which had been delivered to the Emperor on the morning of March 2, 1855, the date of his death. Everything is just as he left it, and a soldier of the Grenadier Guards is constantly on duty over the relics of the Iron Czar. [Illustration: NICHOLAS I.] "If what we read of him is true, he possessed one characteristic of Peter the Great--that of having his own way, more than any other Emperor of modern times. He ascended the throne in the midst of a revolution which resulted in the defeat of the insurgents. They assembled in Admiralty Square, and after a brief resistance were fired upon by the loyal soldiers of the Empire. Five of the principal conspirators were hanged after a long and searching trial, during which Nicholas was concealed behind a screen in the court-room, and listened to all that was said. Two hundred of the others were sent to Siberia for life, and the soldiers who had simply obeyed the orders of their leaders were distributed among other regiments than those in which they had served. "Through his whole reign Nicholas was an enemy to free speech or free writing, and his rule was severe to the last degree. What he ordered it was necessary to perform, no matter what the difficulties were in the way, and a failure was, in his eyes, little short of a crime. He decided questions very rapidly, and often with a lack of common-sense. When the engineers showed him the plans of the Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway, and asked where the line should run, he took a ruler, drew on the map a line from one city to the other, and said that should be the route. As a consequence, the railway is very nearly straight for the whole four hundred miles of its course, and does not pass any large towns like the railways in other countries. "A more sensible anecdote about him relates an incident of the Crimean war, when the Governor of Moscow ordered the pastor of the English Church in that city to omit the portion of the service which prays for the success of British arms. The pastor appealed the case to the Emperor, who asked if those words were in the regular service of the English Church. On being answered in the affirmative, he told the pastor to continue to read the service just as it was, and ordered the governor to make no further interference. "His disappointment at the defeat of his armies in the Crimean war was the cause of his death, quite as much as the influenza to which it is attributed. On the morning of his last day he received news of the repulse of the Russians at Eupatoria, and he is said to have died while in a fit of anger over this reverse. Though opposed to the freedom of the Press and people, he advised the liberation of the serfs; and before he died he urged his son and successor to begin immediately the work of emancipation. "The Hermitage is close to the palace, and is large enough of itself for the residence of an emperor of medium importance, and certainly for a good-sized king. The present building is the successor of one which was built for the Empress Catherine as a refuge from the cares of State, and hence was called the Hermitage. It is virtually a picture-gallery and museum, as the walls of the interior are covered with pictures, and there are collections of coins, gems, Egyptian antiquities, and other things distributed through the rooms. [Illustration: PETER III.] "The room of greatest interest to us in the Hermitage was that containing the relics of Peter the Great. There were the turning-lathes whereon he worked, the knives and chisels with which he carved wood into various forms, together with specimens of his wood-carving. His telescopes, drawing-instruments, walking-stick, saddle, and other things are all here, and in the centre of the room is an effigy which shows him to have been a man of giant stature, as does also a wooden rod which is said to be the one with which he was actually measured. There is a carriage in which he drove about the city, the horse he rode at the battle of Pultowa, and several of his favorite dogs, all stuffed and preserved, but not in the highest style of the taxidermist. There are casts taken after Peter's death, several portraits in oil and one in mosaic, and a cast taken during life, and presented by Peter to his friend Cardinal Valenti at Rome. It was missing for a long time, but was finally discovered about the middle of this century by a patriotic Russian, who bought it and presented it to the gallery. "There is a clock in the same room which is said to have contained at one time the draft of a constitution which Catherine the Great intended giving to her people. Immediately after her death her son and successor, Paul, rushed to the clock in her bedroom, drew out the paper, and destroyed it. At least this is the tradition; and whether true or not, it is worth knowing, as it illustrates the character of Paul I." Our friends imitated the course of many an Imperial favorite, not only in Russia, but in other countries, by going from a palace to a prison, but with the difference in their case that the step was voluntary. As they crossed the bridge leading from the Winter Palace in the direction of the grim fortress of Sts. Peter and Paul, Doctor Bronson told the youths that Peter the Great shut up his sister in a convent and exiled her minister, Prince Galitzin. "Since his time," the Doctor continued, "his example has been followed by nearly every sovereign of Russia, and a great many persons, men and women, have ended their lives in prison or in exile who once stood high in favor at the Imperial court. Catherine was accustomed to dispose of the friends of whom she had wearied by sending them to live amid Siberian snows, and the Emperor Paul used to condemn people to prison or to exile on the merest caprice. Even at the present day the old custom is not unknown." [Illustration: CIRCASSIAN ARMS AS TROPHIES OF BATTLE.] "We were not admitted to the cells of the fortress," said Frank, in his account of the visit to the place, "as it was 'contrary to orders,' according to the guide's explanation. But we were shown through the cathedral where the rulers of Russia from the time of Peter the Great have been buried, with the exception of Peter II., who was buried at Moscow, where he died. The tombs are less elaborate than we expected to find them, and the walls of the church are hung profusely with flags, weapons of war, and other trophies of battle. The tombs mark the positions of the graves, which are beneath the floor of the cathedral. Naturally the tombs that most attracted our attention were those of the rulers who have been most famous in the history of Russia. "We looked first at the burial-place of the great Peter, then at that of Catherine II., and afterwards at the tomb of Nicholas I.; then we sought the tomb of Alexander II., who fell at the hands of Nihilist assassins, and after a brief stay in the church returned to the open air. The building is more interesting for its associations than for the artistic merit of its interior. Its spire is the tallest in the Empire, with the exception of the tower of the church at Revel, on the Baltic coast. From the level of the ground to the top of the cross is three hundred and eighty-seven feet, which is twenty-six feet higher than St. Paul's in London. "The spire alone is one hundred and twenty-eight feet high, and very slender in shape. It was erected more than a hundred years ago, and the church itself dates almost from the time of the foundation of the city. Fifty or more years ago the angel and cross on the top of the spire threatened to fall, and a Russian peasant offered to repair them for two hundred rubles. By means of a rope and a few nails, he climbed to the top of the spire and performed the work, and nobody will say he did not earn his money. A single misstep, or the slightest accident, would have dashed him to certain death. "When we left the church and fortress," continued Frank, "we felt that we had had enough for the day of that kind of sight-seeing, so we drove through some of the principal streets and went to the Gostinna Dvor, where we wished to see the curiosities of the place and make a few purchases. [Illustration: STATUE OF NICHOLAS I.] "Near St. Isaac's Church we passed the famous equestrian statue of the Emperor Nicholas, in which the sculptor succeeded in balancing the horse on his hind feet without utilizing the tail, as was done in the case of the statue of Peter the Great. The Emperor is in the uniform of the Horse Guards. The pedestal is formed of blocks of granite of different colors, and there are bronze reliefs on the four sides representing incidents in the Emperor's life and career. On the upper part of the pedestal at each of the corners are emblematical figures, and just beneath the forefeet of the horse is a fine representation of the Imperial eagle. The whole work is surrounded with an iron fence to preserve it from injury, and altogether the statue is one of which the city may well be proud." While the party were looking at the Imperial arms just mentioned, Fred asked why the eagle of Russia is represented with two heads. "It indicates the union of the Eastern and Western empires," the Doctor answered, "the same as does the double-headed eagle of Austria. The device was adopted about four centuries ago by Ivan III., after his marriage with Sophia, a princess of the Imperial blood of Constantinople. "By-the-way," the Doctor continued, "there's a story of an Imperial grand-duke who went one day on a hunting excursion, the first of his life, and fired at a large bird which rose before him. The bird fell, and was brought by a courtier to the noble hunter. "'Your Imperial Highness has killed an eagle,' said the courtier, bowing low and depositing the prey on the ground. "The grand-duke looked the bird over carefully, and then turned away with disdain. 'That's no eagle,' said he, 'it has only one head.'" What our young friends saw in the Gostinna Dvor will be told in the next chapter. CHAPTER VI. THE GOSTINNA DVOR.--ITS EXTENT AND CHARACTER.--PECULIARITY OF RUSSIAN SHOPPING.--CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--OLD-CLOTHES MARKET.--HAY-MARKET.--PIGEONS IN RUSSIAN CITIES.--FROZEN ANIMALS.--CHURCH AND MONASTERY OF ST. ALEXANDER NEVSKI.--A PERSIAN TRAIN.--A COFFIN OF SOLID SILVER.--THE SUMMER GARDEN.--SPEAKING TO THE EMPEROR.--KRILOFF AND HIS FABLES.--VISIT TO A RUSSIAN THEATRE.--"A LIFE FOR THE CZAR."--A RUSSIAN COMEDY. "Before I describe the Gostinna Dvor of St. Petersburg," said Fred in his note-book, "let me premise by saying that every Russian city or town has an establishment of the same kind. It is a good deal more than the market-place with us, and seems to combine the bazaars of the East with the shops of the West. In an ordinary town the Gostinna Dvor occupies a single large building at or near the centre of population; the larger the town or city the greater will be the commercial needs of the people, and consequently a city like Moscow or St. Petersburg will have a Gostinna Dvor that dwarfs all ordinary markets into insignificance. "The one at St. Petersburg occupies an enormous building, which might almost be called a series of buildings, fronting on the Nevski Prospect, but entered also from other streets. There are said to be ten thousand merchants and their employés in the building, and certainly the number is little if any exaggerated. We walked among the rows of shops till our feet ached with weariness, and still there were many other rows of shops to be visited. Sometimes the shopmen were importunate, but usually they did not disturb us unless we stopped to look at something. The building is two stories high, the lower floor being used for retail purposes and the upper for the storage of goods. Owing to the danger of a conflagration and the great destruction that would ensue, we were told that no fire is allowed here in winter. Then the merchants and their clerks wear furs and thick clothing when at their business, and shoppers are not expected to lay aside their wraps while making purchases. "'What do you buy in the Gostinna Dvor?' I hear some one asking. "'Everything that one could wear or use in Russia,' I should reply, 'together with a great many things whose use it would be impossible to imagine.' Some one writing on this subject says you may come naked into the Gostinna Dvor, bringing only a pocket-book stuffed with money, and leave it in an hour dressed in whatever garments you choose, wear all the jewellery your tastes may dictate, and ride away in a coach drawn by four horses, with driver and footmen in livery, all obtained in the building we are now visiting, or in one of its annexes. Nay, more; you can engage a residence of palatial character from accommodating house agents stationed here, and furnish it completely from the stock on hand in the Gostinna Dvor. Pictures, chairs, sofas, curtains, tapestry, kitchen utensils, library, anything and everything you want, are all ready for sale, and only await purchasers. Your wife and children, 'sisters, cousins, and aunts,' can here be provided with wardrobes, elaborate or economical, as your purse will justify, and so with all the servants of the household, regardless of their number. [Illustration: POLITENESS IN THE MARKET-PLACE.] "Officers of every grade, rank, and arm of the service can be uniformed here, and their garments may be brand-new, second-hand, or so old that they will subject the wearer to punishment on account of his shabbiness. Decorations are to be bought, at least the insignia thereof, and the seller will ask no questions. The purchaser wears them at his peril if he does not possess the proper diplomas, since the unauthorized wearing of decorations is as serious a matter in Russia as in other Continental countries. The Emperor Nicholas was fond of visiting the Gostinna Dvor accompanied by a single orderly. One day he saw a young officer wistfully eying a decoration in one of the windows, and told the orderly to ascertain his name. Inquiry showed that the officer stood well with his superiors, was faithful in the performance of his duties, and the result was he received the coveted bauble directly from the hand of the Emperor. "Perhaps you wonder why the Russian market is so extensive, and what must be the habits of the people to sustain such a commerce. This is the way it is explained: "A Russian rarely buys anything till just as he wants it, and then he cannot wait to have it made. In England or America a man desiring to furnish a fine house would be weeks or months collecting his furniture, ordering some to be made, and buying the rest from time to time when he found what suited him. Under similar circumstances, a Russian drives to the Gostinna Dvor, and makes his selections from what he finds there. "The Russians are said to be more capricious than people of other nationalities in the matter of their movements from place to place. A wealthy Russian will fit up a house at great expense, buying his furniture in the manner described. In a few months he decides to travel for his health, or go to the country, and the whole equipment is sent to the Gostinna Dvor and sold for what it will bring. It may be so little used that it can be sold again by the dealer as new, and of course the dealer makes a large profit on the transaction. When the man comes back to the city he furnishes anew, and thus the business of the bazaar is maintained. Fortunes come and go very quickly in Russia, and so the work of fitting and dismantling is continuous. "The best goods are in the Gostinna Dvor proper, while the inferior ones are in the annexes. Some of the shops have fixed prices, but in most of them there is a system of bargaining which is not agreeable to the traveller from the Occident. He is never certain that he has paid the proper price, even when he has brought the merchant down to what appears to be his lowest figure. [Illustration: IMPORTUNING A VISITOR.] "We bought a few articles of Russian manufacture to send home to our friends. Among them were _samovars_, inlaid goods from Tula, embroidered slippers and sashes from the Tartar provinces, malachite and lapis-lazuli jewellery, and some Circassian ornaments of silver. Many of the articles sold in the Gostinna Dvor are of English, German, and French manufacture, which are largely increased in price owing to the duties placed upon them by the custom-house. "Our guide directed us from the rear of the building along the _Bolshoia Sadovaia_, or Great Garden Street, which is a line of shops and bazaars, to the _Sennaia Ploshad_, or Hay-market. This is a large open place or square, which is less interesting now than in winter. In summer it is devoted to the sale of hay and live-stock, but in winter it is filled not only with the hay, grain, and live-stock of summer, but with frozen animals, which form the principal food of the inhabitants of the city. Here is what one traveller has written about the frozen market: [Illustration: FROZEN ANIMALS IN THE MARKET.] "'On one side you see a collection of frozen sheep--stiff, ghastly objects--some poised on their hoofs like the wooden animals in a child's "Noah's Ark;" others on their sides, with their legs projecting at right angles to their bodies; others, again, on their backs, with their feet in the air like inverted tables. The oxen are only less grotesque from having been cleft down their backs--an operation which seems to take them out of the category of oxen and place them in that of beef. The pigs are drawn up in line against the wall, standing on their hind legs, with their forefeet extended above their heads, like trick-dogs going through their performances. "'The partridges, quails, grouse, wood-hens, and other birds are lying together in a frozen mass, and by their side are ducks and geese with outstretched necks so straight and stiff that you might take one of these harmless creatures by the bill and, using it as a bludgeon, knock down your enemy with its body. The fowls have been plucked, plunged into water, and left to freeze; thus they are completely encased in ice, and in that condition will keep for any length of time as long as the weather continues cold.' "Frozen fish are piled in heaps like stove-wood, and frozen cabbages are rolled around like cannon-shot. A calf stands in front of a butcher's stall in the attitude of walking away, but an examination shows that he is hard as a stone, and may have been standing there for weeks. Milk is sold in bricks, with a stick or string frozen into one corner; the purchaser may carry it home by means of this improvised handle, or he may wrap it in paper or his handkerchief. In fact everything that can be frozen yields to the frost, and the Russians find it a most convenient form of preservation. One of the odd sights of the frozen market is the itinerant vender of sucking-pigs, who carries these articles of trade hung around his neck or waist, as though they were ornaments rather than merchandise. [Illustration: MARKET FOR OLD CLOTHES.] "There is a market for old clothes which reminded us of Chatham Street, in New York. The dealers had little stalls where the garments were exposed for sale, and there were a good many peddlers who walked about with the goods they desired to dispose of. The old-clothes market of St. Petersburg is said to be inferior to that of Moscow in the number and character of the Israelitish merchants in whose hands the business is concentrated. The one at Moscow is also called the Elbow-market, on account of the continued elbowing of those who go there. Though people were crowded closely together when we were in the market, we saw no indications of anything but good-nature. The Russians are polite to each other as well as to strangers, and it was amusing to see how the rough fellows, when meeting face to face, bowed as though they were great personages. "And such flocks of pigeons as were flying all about! They tell us there are many more of them in winter than in summer, as the birds are then driven to the towns and cities to find their food. The Hay-market is their favorite resort, since grain as well as hay is sold there, and the pigeons manage to get off with all that is scattered on the ground. [Illustration: PIGEONS IN A RUSSIAN CITY.] "The pigeon or dove in Russia is a sacred bird. The Russians say that as the dove brought the olive-branch to the Ark, he should not be harmed, and it would be a great offence to kill one of these birds in the presence of an orthodox member of the Church. But all the grain that is scattered from the feed of the horses and in the market-place is not sufficient for the sustenance of the pigeons; many kind-hearted persons throw quantities of grain to them every morning, and not unfrequently it happens that a pious Russian will spend a considerable part of his income in this way. Kriloff, the Russian fable writer, is said to have supported all the pigeons of the Gostinna Dvor for some time at his own expense, or, more properly speaking, at that of his creditors. "There are a great many magpies and crows mingling with the pigeons, and evidently considering themselves just as respectable. Pigeons, crows, and magpies fill the belfries of many of the churches, but not of all, and nobody seems able to say why they make the distinction. Some of the churches are fairly thronged with them, and they keep up a perpetual flutter around the roof from sunrise to sunset. "There is a story that the magpies were driven out of Moscow by one of the priests under the following circumstances: The high-priest, or metropolitan, was about to lay the foundation of a new church, and when he reached the part of the ceremony where the mortar was to be placed on the stone, the golden trowel which had been brought for the occasion could not be found. A workman standing near was accused of the theft, and as nobody else could have stolen the trowel, the man was sent to Siberia. Some weeks later the precious tool was found by the bell-ringers in the great tower in the Kremlin, where it had been carried by a thieving magpie. The man was pardoned, and compensated for his suffering; the metropolitan placed the curse of the Church on the magpie, and thereupon all the magpies in Moscow flew away, and have not since been near the city. The story is told by the author of 'The Russians at Home,' and he adds that the magpies really do keep at a respectful distance from the ancient capital of Russia, and thus vouch for the truth of the story." From the Gostinna Dvor our friends drove to the church and monastery of St. Alexander Nevski, at the extreme end of the Nevski Prospect. It occupies a large area enclosed by high walls, and is said to be on the exact spot where the Grand-duke Alexander defeated the Swedes, about A.D. 1241. In due time he was canonized, and became St. Alexander. He was buried at Vladimir, where his remains rested until after the founding of St. Petersburg. Peter the Great caused the bones of the saint to be transported to the new city on the banks of the Neva. St. Alexander became St. Alexander Nevski ("of the Neva"), and the church and monastery were established. One night the monks in charge of the church took the bones of the saint and started for Vladimir, declaring they had been told in a vision that the saint was not resting peacefully in the marshy soil of the new capital. Peter was not a man to be thwarted in his designs. He sent word to the monks that unless they returned immediately, bringing the bones with them, they would lose their heads. Knowing the man they had to deal with, they straightway had a new vision, which accorded with the wishes of the imperious Czar. They took the road back to St. Petersburg without delay, and sought and obtained the pardon of their august master. Hear what Fred has to say about the church and its surroundings: "The original church was of wood," writes Fred, "and was built about 1712; it was torn down a few years later, and replaced with a church of stone. The sovereigns of Russia each added something to the building and its surroundings, and the present cathedral was built by Catherine the Great. The work was done at great expense. Marble was brought from Italy for the interior decorations, and the malachite, lapis-lazuli, and other costly minerals were brought from Siberia and Persia. Some of the paintings are by Russian artists, and the rest by celebrated masters of Italy and other countries. "An object of great interest is the shrine of St. Alexander Nevski. The coffin is of solid silver, and, with the surrounding ornaments of the same pure metal, is estimated to weigh more than a ton and a half. The crown of the saint is preserved here, and also the bed on which Peter the Great died, and there are many interesting objects associated with the memory of nearly all the rulers of Russia. "There is a library of ten or twelve thousand volumes, together with a large number of manuscripts relating to the history of the Empire. In the monastery are the cells of some fifty or sixty monks who reside here and have charge of a religious school which is open to students preparing to enter the service of the Church. The chapel contains the tombs of Suwaroff and other generals, and also of many members of the Imperial family. There are tombs of several noble families of Russia; that of the Narishkins bears the inscription, "'FROM THEIR RACE CAME PETER THE GREAT.' "An occurrence of comparatively recent times is associated with this church. Alexander Griboyedoff, born at Moscow about 1795, was a celebrated poet and dramatist, whose merits were acknowledged by his appointment as Minister to Persia in 1828. In February of the following year he and all the Russians who accompanied him were murdered in Teheran, in consequence of a riotous outbreak of the populace. The Russian Government demanded satisfaction, which was given in the shape of a long train of beasts of burden loaded with presents, and accompanied by a prince of the Shah's household. There were also many fine horses for saddle purposes, and a collection of wild animals peculiar to Asia. The train was months on its way, and reached St. Petersburg in the winter. A procession was made to this church, and certainly it was the most remarkable that this northern city had ever seen. [Illustration: PERSIAN HORSES PRESENTED BY THE SHAH.] "Pearls, embroideries in gold and silver, shawls, and other costly fabrics, were carried on silver dishes in the hands of gorgeously dressed Persians; elephants bearing towers filled with Persian warriors, or laden with the gifts of the Persian court, were protected from the cold by boots and wrappings of leather; and the cages of the lions, tigers, and leopards were shielded by double coverings of the skins of Arctic bears. The Persian prince rode in an Imperial carriage drawn by six horses, and was escorted by a regiment of Russian grenadiers. A portion of the presents was bestowed upon this church, and the remainder went to the families of Griboyedoff and his companions. "The Emperor comes in person to attend the service of mass in this church at least once a year. The choir is one of the best in the city, and the church is largely attended by the fashionable inhabitants of the capital. A service was going on as we entered the building, and we remained near the door until it ended. It was an impressive ceremonial, made doubly so by the historic interest of the surroundings." [Illustration: RUSSIAN PEASANT GIRL.] A drive to the Summer Gardens followed the visit to the Church of Saint Alexander Nevski. Several theatres and other public buildings were passed on the way, but they concluded not to stop to examine them. "One building is very much like another in St. Petersburg," said the Doctor; "and unless there is some special interest connected with it, or a peculiar feature of architecture, it is not worth while mixing it up with your recollections of the Winter Palace and the Hermitage." [Illustration: RUSSIAN NURSE-MAID AND CHILDREN.] It was a pleasant afternoon, and the Summer Gardens were filled with people enjoying the open air. There were nurse-maids with children, peasants alone or in couples, or groups, well-to-do persons of the middle classes, officers and soldiers--in fact a fair representation of the whole population. The Emperor sometimes comes here for a walk, but of late years his visits have been less frequent than formerly, on account of the fear of assassination. It is forbidden to speak to the Emperor while he is on the promenade, and any one violating the rule will be arrested immediately. It is said that one day while the Emperor was walking in the Summer Gardens he met and recognized a French actor with whose performance he was greatly pleased. He spoke pleasantly to the actor, and the latter replied, expressing his satisfaction at this mark of the Imperial favor. The Emperor then went on his way. The police immediately pounced upon the performer, and carried him away to prison for violating the rule! "But the Emperor spoke to me first," the man protested over and over again to no purpose. "You spoke to the Emperor, which is contrary to the law," was all the explanation he could obtain. Nicholas went that night to the theatre to hear his favorite, but the latter did not appear. No one could tell where he was, and his Majesty returned disappointed to the palace. In the morning the unfortunate actor was released, and the story somehow reached the Imperial ears. Nicholas sent for the victim of the arrest, apologized for the action of the police, and asked what reparation he could make for the actor's night in prison. "Never speak to me again in the public garden," was the reply. The Emperor laughed, and made the required promise. Next day he sent the equivalent of a month's salary to the actor, together with a diamond ring of no small value. In one corner of the garden is a monument to the memory of Kriloff, the Russian fabulist. The youths asked the Doctor to tell them about Kriloff, which he did as follows: "Kriloff was the most famous writer in Russia in the first half of the present century," said the Doctor, "and he is probably better known to-day among all classes of the population than any other man of letters. Forty thousand copies of his works were sold between 1830 and 1840, in editions of various kinds, and went to all parts of the Empire. There was hardly a child of the educated classes who was not familiar with his stories, and they were circulated 'by word of mouth' among the peasantry, to whom reading was an unknown accomplishment; and before they were issued in books, his fables were published in newspapers and magazines, so that the aggregate circulation was very large." Fred asked what was the nature of the stories told by the famous man whose statue they were regarding. [Illustration: SOME OF KRILOFF'S FRIENDS.] "They were fables," the Doctor answered, "after the manner of Æsop's and La Fontaine's. He had written editorials and literary essays for various publications, but never made a 'hit' until about his fortieth year, when he took some fables from La Fontaine and adapted them to the conditions of life in Russia. He showed them to a friend, who printed them in _The Moscow Spectator_, where they attracted much attention. Kriloff was encouraged to continue this style of writing. For the rest of his life his literary labors were almost wholly devoted to fables. He died in November, 1844, at the good old age of seventy-six. [Illustration: KRILOFF'S CHARACTERS IN CONVENTION.] "At his funeral the streets were crowded, and the Church of St. Isaac could not hold all who came to take part in the services. Soon after his death a popular subscription was started, and the children of all classes contributed to it. The money was expended for the erection of the statue before us. You observe that the space around it is the favorite play-ground of the children, and no more appropriate spot could have been chosen." The statue represents Kriloff in a dressing-gown, seated in an arm-chair, with his head slightly inclined forward, and looking pleasantly downward. The pedestal of the monument is adorned with reliefs of the animals that figured in his fables--oxen, horses, cows, sheep, donkeys, foxes, wolves, hens, lions, etc., and thereby hangs a story: The Emperor Nicholas was fond of choosing as his ministers and advisers men who were not likely to oppose any of his measures. The incompetency of his ministry was notorious both in Russia and other countries. When his successor, Alexander II., ascended the throne, he was asked why he did not retain the ministry of Nicholas instead of choosing a new one. He replied, "My father was a man of such transcendent ability that he could afford to surround himself with incompetent men; I feel my weakness, and must have the best talent in the Empire to assist me." When the equestrian monument to the memory of Nicholas was under consideration, it was proposed to adorn its pedestal with the portraits of his ministers, but the proposal was vetoed, when some one suggested that if the monument were so adorned it might be mistaken for that of Kriloff. "Kriloff's fables," the Doctor continued, "were aimed at official and social abuses and absurdities. Many that he wrote were never produced, as all had to receive the approval of the censor before they could be issued. I told you that in ten years forty thousand copies of his works were sold, and it is probable that the present sale amounts to several thousand annually. Kriloff is read not only by Russian children but by people of all ages, and the fables have been translated into all the languages of Europe." On the way back to the hotel our friends stopped at a book-store and bought a copy, in English, of the book in which their interest had been aroused. Some of the fables were incomprehensible to them, on account of their ignorance of Russian manners and customs, and of the system of government; but this was not the case with the greater number. They had a hearty laugh over several of the anecdotes, and voted the book to be well worth preserving. Here are some of the fables with which they were amused. We will condense them, as they are sometimes rather long drawn out in the original. A donkey meets a nightingale in the woods, and asks her to favor him with a song. She complies, and sings her sweetest. The other birds come and listen, but the donkey shakes his head and says, "Your voice is very fair, but you should take lessons of the village cock." The moral may be thus rendered in English: "What most the poet fears, Is the critic with long ears." Another fable tells how the swan, the crab, and the pike agreed to draw a load; but when the time came for the effort the pike dived into the water, the swan flew into the air, while the crab went backward after the manner of his kind. At the end Kriloff says, "Which was right and which was wrong, I really can't pretend to say; But this I know, they labored long, And the load stands still to the present day." The fable of "The Two Boys" tells how two youths are trying to get at some nuts in a tree, but the limbs are beyond their reach. One suggests that he will climb up on the back of the other, and then can gather nuts for both; but as soon as he is seated among the limbs he falls to eating the nuts at his leisure, and throws only the shells to his companion. The moral is obvious, and Kriloff adds that he has known men thus raised to profitable positions who had not the grace to throw even the shells to those who had assisted them. [Illustration: THE FOX AS A LAW GIVER.] In the fable of "The Pike," that voracious fish has been killing his inoffensive neighbors in the pond. He is taken in a tub of water and carried before the court for judgment. The court is composed of two donkeys and two goats, who grazed on the banks of the pond; and in order to make their decision an intelligent one, a skilful lawyer, the fox, is added to the court. People said that the fox was always plentifully supplied with fish, the pike giving him all he wanted. The proof was overwhelming, and the judges decided that the pike must be hanged. "Oh, hanging's too good for him," said the fox, "give him something more severe; let the wretch be drowned." "Certainly," exclaimed the judges; and thereupon the pike was thrown into the pond again. [Illustration: ONE OF KRILOFF'S CHARACTERS.] In "The Fox and the Marmot," the fox complains to the marmot that he has been driven out of a poultry-yard which he had undertaken to protect. "It was a wretched place," says the fox; "I was awake all night; and even in the daytime I had hardly time to eat a mouthful. My health was suffering from my constant occupation, and, after all my trouble and fidelity, I am accused of stealing. What an infamous outrage! You know what I had to do there, and I ask if you could suspect me of the slightest act of dishonesty." "Of course not," the marmot answers; "but I'm sorry to say that I've frequently seen feathers sticking in your mouth." "Many an official," says Kriloff, "complains that his place is a hard one, and he is barely able to live upon his pay. Nevertheless in time he buys an estate and builds a house. You might have difficulty in proving that he accepted bribes or robbed the Government, but every one must admit that the feathers are quite visible around the gentleman's mouth." Frank read this fable aloud, and then asked the Doctor if the moral would be understood by any office-holders in the United States. Doctor Bronson smiled as he answered that the fable was designed for Russia alone, but its circulation in New York and Washington could do no harm. In the evening our friends went to one of the theatres to hear an opera that is a great favorite with the Russians. It is by Glinka, a Russian composer, and is entitled "_Jizn za Tsarya_" ("A Life for the Czar"). From "The Russians at Home" Fred learned that the opera was first produced in Moscow in 1843. The subject is the devotion of a Russian peasant to the Czar Michael, the first ruler of the Romanoff family. A band of Polish invaders are seeking the Czar with the intention of killing him; they meet a peasant, whom they question as to the Czar's place of concealment. Suspecting their design, he offers to lead them to the spot; they follow, and he leads them to the centre of a forest from which they cannot find a way of escape. After getting them there, he announces that he has saved the life of the Czar at the sacrifice of his own. The invaders kill him on the spot, but the life of the Czar is saved. The story is a true one, and to this day the people of the village where the loyal peasant, Ivan Soussanin, lived, are exempt from taxes, and a monument has been erected to the memory of the man. The opera which chronicles his devotion is given in three acts, and its melodies are all strictly national. Our friends were delighted with the performance, and both Frank and Fred declared that for days afterwards several of the airs in "_Jizn za Tsarya_" were literally "running through their heads." Another evening they went to one of the cheaper theatres, where Russian comedies and farces were given. Of course they could not understand the dialogue, but were quite interested in the action of the piece, which was decidedly vigorous. Fred said he was reminded of certain local dramas in New York, where the actors receive a great deal of pounding and rough handling, and Frank thought a good actor in Russia ought to have the flexibility and agility of a circus performer. As a type of the plays that amuse the lower order of Russians, the following is a fair representation: A mujik makes love to his master's maid-servant, much against the old gentleman's will. One day the master enters the kitchen and finds the mujik there. The whole family is called, the bull-dog is let loose upon the lover and seizes him by the coat, while all the members of the household proceed to pound him with saucepans, broomsticks, tongs, and other utensils that can be used for hostile purposes. [Illustration: CLOSING SCENE IN A RUSSIAN PLAY.] Round and round goes the frightened mujik. The dog clings to the mujik's coat, the master seizes the dog by the tail, the mistress clutches the master by the coat, and so the whole trio is dragged by the victim. The rest of the party continue their pounding, which they alternate by throwing missiles in the shape of plates, potatoes, and anything else the kitchen affords. The audience is wild with delight, especially as the blows fall quite as often on the other characters as on the mujik. Finally the maid-servant comes to her lover's relief by throwing a bunch of fire-crackers among his enemies and blowing them up; thereupon the lover dashes through the door, carrying with him the adhering bull-dog, and the curtain falls amid rounds of applause. [Illustration: KRILOFF'S STATUE IN THE SUMMER GARDEN, ST. PETERSBURG.] CHAPTER VII. NEWSPAPERS IN RUSSIA.--THEIR NUMBER, CHARACTER, AND INFLUENCE.--DIFFICULTIES OF EDITORIAL LIFE.--THE CENSORSHIP.--AN EXCURSION TO PETERHOF, ORANIENBAUM, AND CRONSTADT.--SIGHTS IN THE SUMMER PALACE.--CRONSTADT AND THE NAVAL STATION.--THE RUSSIAN NAVY.--THE RUSSIAN ARMY: ITS COMPOSITION AND NUMBERS.--THE COSSACKS.--ANECDOTES OF RUSSIAN MILITARY LIFE. The conversation about Kriloff and the visit to the opera naturally turned the thoughts of the youths in the direction of Russian literature, journalism, and dramatic productions. Frank was curious to know about the newspapers of the country, while Fred's first inquiry referred to the works of its poets, historians, and dramatists. "We will begin with the newspapers," said Doctor Bronson, "and first I will speak of those published in St. Petersburg. They are all printed in Russian, with the exception of a little sheet in German, for the exclusive use of the German residents, and _Le Journal de St. Petersbourg_, the organ of the ministry of foreign affairs, and chiefly filled with official notices interesting to foreigners. It is printed in French, as most of the foreigners visiting Russia understand that language. It contains very little local news, and not much from the outside world. In fact journalism, as we understand it in America, is practically unknown in Russia. The best of the Russian dailies could not stand a comparison with the leading journals of a dozen American cities, and a single copy of the _Herald_, _Tribune_, _Times_, or _World_, of New York, contains more 'news,' as we call it, than all the papers of Moscow and St. Petersburg together." "I suppose the censorship is largely responsible for this state of affairs," Frank remarked. "You are quite right," the Doctor replied; "if the censorship did not exist there is no doubt that the papers would be much more enterprising than they are. They must not offend the Government, or they are liable to suppression. Editorials are generally submitted to the censor before going into type, and if approved they may be printed. If printed without approval, the publishers run the risk of censure. For a first offence they are 'cautioned;' for a second they are cautioned and fined; and for a third offence the publication is suspended for a month, three months, or perhaps entirely. Consequently the papers cannot discuss public matters with any freedom, and they are entirely prohibited from publishing personal scandals, which form such an important part of the 'news' of several American papers I could name. In addition to cautions and fines, the editors are liable to imprisonment; and, taking all things into consideration, the way of the journalist is hard in Russia." Fred asked the Doctor what were the principal papers of the capital. [Illustration: PRESS-ROOM OF A DAILY NEWSPAPER.] "They change so often," was the reply, "that an answer made this year will hardly answer for next. Each member of the ministry has his organ; that of the foreign ministry, as before stated, is _Le Journal de St. Petersbourg_; while that of the War Department is the _Russki Invalid_; known to the outer world as the _Invalide Russe_. The organ of the Naval Bureau is published at Cronstadt, the great naval port of the Empire, and not at the capital; but as Cronstadt is only a few miles away, the locality is of little consequence. The _Golos_ is generally understood to be the organ of the Ministry of the Interior; and as this department has the supervision of the press, this paper is said to have more freedom than its rivals. But even the _Golos_ does not escape the hand of the censor, and its freedom of speech has several times brought it into trouble. "What would be called a small circulation in America is a large one in Russia. There is not a daily paper in the Empire that averages a circulation of twenty-five thousand copies, and the leading papers of the two great cities have to content themselves with ten or fifteen thousand. I have been told that the daily papers of St. Petersburg do not circulate altogether more than eighty thousand copies daily outside the capital, and about fifty thousand in it. Remember, the mass of the population does not know how to read and write as in America, and consequently the circulation of the newspapers is confined to a small portion of the community. [Illustration: INTERVIEWING AN EDITOR.] "A paper of great influence, probably the greatest in the Empire, is the _Moscow Gazette_. It is supposed to be the organ of the Emperor, with whom its editor, Mr. Katkoff, is on terms of intimacy. Important edicts of the Government are frequently foreshadowed in the _Gazette_, and the national and international pulses are often felt through its columns. But, with all its influence, the _Gazette_ does not circulate more than twenty thousand copies--at least according to the figures at my command. The _Moscow Gazette_ is more frequently quoted by foreign writers than any other journal in Russia; and if it were published in French rather than in Russian, we should probably hear of it even more frequently than we do." "It's a pity they don't give us a French edition of it," said Frank. "I would like very much to read the paper and know what it has to say, but of course I can't as long as it is in Russian. French is the diplomatic language, and I wonder they don't make an edition for foreign circulation." "Did you ever hear," remarked the Doctor, with a smile, "of the attempt of Prince Bismarck to have German take the place of French as the language of diplomacy?" Neither of the boys had heard the anecdote, which the Doctor gave as follows: [Illustration: PRINCE GORTCHAKOFF.] "Shortly after the close of the Franco-German War, in 1870, Bismarck thought he would establish German as the diplomatic language, and with this object in view he made use of German instead of French in an official communication to Prince Gortchakoff, the foreign minister of Russia. Gortchakoff promptly replied to the communication, and wrote in Russian. Bismarck saw the joke, and desisted from further attempts to carry out his design." "Returning to our subject," said the Doctor, "there are daily papers in the large towns of Russia, and weekly or semi-monthly papers in the smaller ones; but with its population of one hundred millions, the Empire has less than one-tenth as many newspapers as we have in the United States, and probably not more than one-fiftieth, or even one-hundredth, of the circulation. "The first printing-press in Russia was set up in 1564. The first newspaper was printed at Moscow in 1704, and the second at St. Petersburg, a year later. Peter the Great abolished the use of the old Slavic characters for printing purposes, and personally supervised the casting at Amsterdam of the types in the Russian common language as we now find it. "In addition to the newspapers there are many magazines and reviews in Russia, and some of them have a very large circulation. They contain articles on the condition of the country, biographical sketches of distinguished Russians, historical notices of cities and towns, scientific reports, travels, anecdotes, and stories by Russian writers, together with translations of European or American works. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' was published in one of the Russian magazines, and so were the stories of Dickens and other English authors. The magazines go to all parts of the Empire, and have a larger circulation, proportioned to that of the newspapers, than do periodicals elsewhere." The conversation was brought to an end by the entrance of the guide, who said it was time to start for their proposed excursion to Peterhof. In a few minutes they were on the way to the station, and in due time were seated in the train which carried them to their destination. Peterhof is on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, not far from Cronstadt; in fact the excursion included a visit to Cronstadt before the party returned to the city. The palace was begun in 1720, under the direction of Peter the Great. Nearly every sovereign of Russia has made additions and alterations, but the original palace remains, and its general characteristics are preserved. Even the yellow paint which Peter adopted is still in use, and the palace contains several relics of the great Czar, which are regarded with reverence by Russian visitors, and with interest by others. "It was here that Peter the Great died," wrote Fred in his journal. "They showed us the bed whereon he breathed his last, and it was in the same condition as when he left it. It is not in the palace, but in a small building in the grounds, and it is said that in the same building the Empress Elizabeth sometimes amused her courtiers by cooking her own dinner. From another building, called Marly, Peter used to watch his fleet of ships at anchor near Cronstadt; and in another, The Hermitage, there is a curious arrangement, devised by Catherine II., so that a party at dinner did not need the aid of servants. You wonder how it was done? "In front of each person at table there was a circular opening, through which a plate could be lowered to the kitchen or carving-room below, and replaced by another. Imagine, if you please, a miniature 'lift,' or elevator, for each place at table, and you will understand the arrangement. Thus a dinner of any number of courses could be served, and the party would be entirely by itself. Catherine used this dining-room when she wished to discuss State secrets with foreign ambassadors, and be sure that no listening servant could betray them. [Illustration: CABINET AND CHAIR IN THE PALACE.] "The palace contains many tapestries, articles of porcelain, malachite, and other costly things, and there are many pictures representing battles fought in the latter part of the last century. One room contains nearly four hundred portraits of girls in all parts of European Russia, which were painted by a French count who travelled through the Empire in Catherine's time. The wonderful thing about them is, that the artist who executed the pictures was able to represent the subjects in different attitudes, so that no two are alike. "They showed us the tables and benches where several of the emperors played when they were children, and also the playthings that amused them. [Illustration: ILLUMINATION IN A RUSSIAN PARK.] "The grounds are quite as interesting as the palace. They are beautifully laid out in gardens, dotted with lakes, cascades, fountains, and little parks. No description in words could do justice to the spot, which must be seen in an elaborate picture to be appreciated. The water-works are nearly as fine as the celebrated one at Versailles, or St. Cloud in France, and of course the Russians claim that they are superior. Occasionally in summer there is a festival given by the Emperor to some of his foreign guests; the grounds and the lake are lighted up with Chinese lanterns, and the display closes with an exhibition of fireworks of no small importance. Sometimes the Emperor goes around the lake in a boat propelled by oars-men, but usually contents himself by looking on from a pavilion near the edge of the water. [Illustration: TAPESTRY AND FIRE UTENSILS AT PETERHOF.] "From Peterhof we drove to Oranienbaum, about six miles away, where we took the boat to Cronstadt. I can't begin to name all the palaces and chateaux on the road, as I was too busy with looking at them to remember what they were called; and besides, if I made a list it might be too long to be interesting. We visited two or three of them, but had not time for all; some were not open to strangers, as they were then occupied by their owners, and these Russian grand-dukes and duchesses are very exclusive in their ways. "At Oranienbaum we found the little steamer which was to convey us to Cronstadt, five miles away; she puffed, as though conscious of her importance, but did not make very good speed, and we had plenty of time to study Cronstadt as we approached it. The city is not very large, nor is it particularly interesting. The chief objects of attraction are the tremendous fortifications, which are among the strongest in the world, and very extensive. They were begun by Peter the Great, in 1703, and there has hardly been a year since that time when labor on them has entirely ceased. The harbor was filled with ships belonging to the war fleet of Russia, and certainly they have a fleet to be proud of. There is a smaller port, called the 'Merchants' Harbor,' where the commerce of the city is centred. It is an active place from May to November, when navigation is open, but when the Baltic is sealed with ice in the winter months, it must be the perfection of dreariness. "Until quite recently ships drawing more than ten feet of water could not pass the bar of the Neva and ascend to St. Petersburg, but were compelled to anchor at Cronstadt. Recently a canal has been made, with a depth of twenty feet, so that a great many vessels which were formerly excluded on account of their size can ascend to the capital. During the Crimean war Cronstadt was blockaded by a French and English fleet; an attack was made on the forts of Cronstadt, but it was easily repulsed; and after that time the allies did nothing more than regard the forts from a safe distance. At Oranienbaum is a palace, from whose top the Emperor Nicholas used to watch the movements of the hostile fleet; the telescope he employed is still in the position where he left it on his last trip to St. Petersburg." While our friends were looking at the naval harbor of Cronstadt and the splendid fleet at anchor there, Doctor Bronson reminded the youths that when Peter the Great ascended the throne Russia had no navy, and none of her people knew anything about building ships. [Illustration: DOOR-WAY OF PETER'S HOUSE AT ZAANDAM, HOLLAND.] "I have read about it," said Frank, "and it was to learn the art of ship-building that he went to England and Holland." "That is what history tells us," the Doctor answered. "He realized the inferior condition of a country without a navy, and sent intelligent young Russians to study the art of building and navigating ships. Not satisfied with what they learned, he left Russia for about a year and a half, which he spent in acquiring useful knowledge. He worked in a ship-yard in Holland disguised as a common workman, though it is generally believed that the officers in charge of the yard knew who he was. Afterwards he spent three months in an English ship-yard; and when he returned to his country he was accompanied by some five hundred shipwrights, riggers, sail-makers, and other laborers required in an establishment such as he wished to create. From this beginning came the navy of Russia. The foundation of the great fleet before us was laid by Peter the Great. "The English and Dutch origin of Russian ship-building is shown in the English and Dutch names for the different parts of a ship. The deck, keel, mast, and many other nautical things are the same in Russian as in English; the Russians had no equivalent words, and naturally adopted the names from the country that supplied the things named. [Illustration: A STUDENT OF NAVIGATION.] "And I can tell you something still more curious," the Doctor continued, "as it was told to me by a Russian captain. While the ship-builders of Peter the Great were from England and Holland combined, the men to navigate the ships after they were built came almost wholly from the latter country. The result is that nearly all the evolutions of a ship, and the movements of the sailors to accomplish them, are in Dutch, or rather they have been adopted from Dutch into Russian. The Russian captain I have mentioned stated it to me in this way: "'A Dutch pilot or captain could come on my ship, and his orders in his own language would be understood by my crew: I mean simply the words of command, without explanations. On the other hand, a Dutch crew could understand my orders without suspecting they were in Russian.'" "It is no wonder," said Fred, "that the Russians honor the memory of the great Peter, and that their largest ship of war bears his name. Am I right in regard to the ship?" "It is the largest at present," replied the Doctor, "but there are three ships--the _Tchesme_, _Sinope_, and _Catherine II._--to be completed in 1887, which will be larger than the _Peter the Great_. The latter is an iron-clad turret-ship of 8285 horse-power and 10,000 tons displacement. She carries eight guns, has two turrets, and her iron plating at the water-line is fourteen inches thick. She is three hundred and thirty feet long and sixty feet wide in her broadest part, and resembles the great mastless ships of the British navy, particularly those of the _Dreadnought_ class. She was built at Cronstadt, in 1874; the other and larger ships I have named are on the ways at Sevastopol and Nicolaieff, on the Black Sea. [Illustration: STEAM FRIGATE NEAR CRONSTADT.] "Without going into details, I will say that the Russian navy consists of two great divisions: the fleet of the Baltic and the fleet of the Black Sea. Each of these great divisions is subdivided into sections: the Baltic fleet into three, and the Black Sea fleet into two. The sections carry flags of different colors, white, blue, and red; this arrangement was taken from the Dutch, like the system of ship-building in Peter's time. "At the beginning of 1885 the Baltic fleet consisted of two hundred and nine vessels, including thirty-three armor-clad and belted ships, forty-nine unarmored frigates, corvettes, clippers, and cruisers, and ninety-five torpedo-boats. Gun-boats, transports, and various other craft completed the list. The Black Sea fleet included ninety-eight vessels, of which seven were armor-clad; then there are the vessels of the Caspian Sea and the Siberian flotillas; and altogether the Russian navy comprised at that time 358 vessels, armed with 671 guns, with a measurement of 196,575 tons, and engines of 191,976 horse-power. "Before we drop the subject of Russia's navy," the Doctor continued, "perhaps you would like to hear about the _Popovkas_." Neither of the youths had heard of these things, and wondered what they could be. Doctor Bronson relieved their perplexity by explaining that the _Popovkas_ were a new style of iron-clad ship intended for the defence of harbors, rather than for rapid cruising at sea. [Illustration: FRIGATE UNDER SAIL AND STEAM.] "They were the invention of Admiral Popoff, of the Russian navy," he remarked, "and hence comes their name. The first of them was built in 1873, at Nicolaieff, on the Black Sea, and was called the _Novgorod_. She is circular, with a diameter of one hundred feet, and carries two eleven-inch guns in a revolving turret like that of the _Monitor_. She measures two thousand tons, and has engines which propel her about six miles an hour. The other ship of this class is the _Admiral Popoff_, one hundred and twenty feet in diameter, carrying two twelve-inch guns in a revolving turret, and capable of steaming eight miles an hour. There is a gentle slope of the sides from the water's edge to the base of the turret, so that any other shot than a plunging one would be glanced off. As the ships have not yet been tried in battle, their advantages are only theoretical." [Illustration: THE "DREADNOUGHT"--TYPE OF THE "PETER THE GREAT."] Frank asked how many officers and men were employed in the navy of the Czar. "From the latest reports at hand," the Doctor answered, "there are twenty-nine admirals, vice-admirals, and rear-admirals, four hundred and four captains, and nine hundred and thirty-four lieutenants and midshipmen. Seventy-six admirals, one hundred and forty captains, and fifty lieutenants are employed on shore duty, and there are thirty-five captains and thirty-nine lieutenants and midshipmen serving in lines of commercial steamers subsidized by the Government; one thousand and ninety-four pilots, engineers, artillerists, and others complete the official list, and the men before the mast number twenty-four thousand five hundred and twelve. The sailors are obtained by conscription or by voluntary enlistment--generally the former--and required to serve nine years. Seven years of this period are in active service, and two years in the reserve, whence the men may be called out in case of war." "Please tell us something about the Russian army," said Fred, "as the army and navy are very closely related." "I think you have had enough of statistics for one day," Doctor Bronson replied, "and if they are all in your journals your readers may be inclined to skip them. But at the risk of being tedious you cannot omit saying something about the military and naval forces of a nation which is the most thoroughly military and naval power of modern times. There is no throne in Europe more dependent upon the weapons of war than is that of Russia. Take away the army and navy, and Russia would follow the fate of Poland, and be speedily dismembered by her neighbors. England, France, Germany, and Austria would have made an end of Russia long ago but for the resisting power of which she is capable." Frank and Fred declared that they would like to hear then and there about the army, and so the Doctor continued: "The army of Russia previous to 1874 was drawn entirely from the classes of artisans and peasants by means of a conscription and the enrolment of the sons of soldiers. In that year a new law was approved by the Emperor making all men who had completed their twenty-first year, and were not physically exempt, liable to service. The purchase of substitutes is not permitted by the new law; each man drawn by the conscription is required to pass six years in active service and nine years in the reserve, making a total of fifteen years in all. While in the reserve the men are liable to be called out only in case of war, and if so called out, the younger are put into active service in the field, while the older ones are employed for garrisoning forts and other light work." "Don't they have any exemption for the sons of rich men?" one of the youths inquired. [Illustration: Grenadier. Chasseur of the Guard. Fifer of the Guard. Dragoon. Cuirassier. Hussar. THE RUSSIAN ARMY--REGULAR TROOPS.] "Theoretically there is none," the Doctor answered; "but in order to cover such cases, and particularly to provide officers for the army, it is arranged that young men with a fair education may be enrolled as volunteers for short terms during and from their seventeenth year of age. When their volunteer service is completed they may pass into the reserve, or be subjected to an examination for commissions as officers either in the active army or the reserve. In the reserve, whether as officers or privates, they are liable to be called for duty any time before their thirty-sixth year." Fred asked what proportion of the male population was taken for the army every year by means of the conscription. "As before stated, every able-bodied man is liable," was the reply; "but it is generally found that a conscription of four in a thousand will produce from ninety thousand to one hundred thousand men. On a peace footing the active army contains about twenty thousand officers and five hundred and thirty thousand men; the reserve adds eight thousand and one hundred thousand to these figures respectively, so that the total peace footing is twenty-eight thousand officers and six hundred and thirty thousand men." "And how much is the war footing?" "The war footing, according to the latest figures, to give it exactly, is 41,551 officers and 1,176,353 men. Add to this the whole able-bodied militia liable to be called into service in case of necessity, and the available war forces of Russia amount to about 3,200,000. On the peace footing, the army has 129,736 horses and 1844 guns, which are increased in time of war to 366,354 horses and 3778 guns. In 1883 a census of the horses in fifty-eight provinces of European Russia showed that there were nearly fifteen millions of these animals fit for service in case of need." [Illustration: COSSACK LANCERS AND RUSSIAN GUARD-HOUSE.] One of the youths wished to know something about the Cossacks, and whether they formed a part of the army or not. "The Cossack is an irregular soldier," the Doctor replied, "though in some cases he is not a soldier at all. The origin of the Cossacks is unknown, some claiming that they belong to the Tartar, and others to the Russian race. The probability is that they are a combination of the two. They were first heard of in the tenth century, in the valley of the Don River; in the wars of Russia with the Turks and Tartars, about the fifteenth century, they showed a great deal of bravery and an excellent organization of a semi-military character. "They are more Russian than Tartar in their language, religion, and customs. The rulers of Russia have not always found affairs running smoothly between themselves and the Cossacks, and when the latter felt they had not been properly treated they were not slow to rebel. A revolt was generally followed by an emigration of the Cossacks into the Tartar country to the east, and in nearly every instance this emigration resulted in the addition of new territory to Russia." "I believe I have read that the conquest of Siberia was accomplished in this way," said one of the youths. "You are right," was the reply, "and the whole conquest hardly cost anything to the Government. About three hundred years ago a tribe of Don Cossacks rebelled, and under the guidance of Yermak, their hetman, or leader, crossed the Ural Mountains into Asia. They began a career of conquest, which was pushed so rapidly that in less than seventy years they and their descendants had carried their banner to the shores of the Okhotsk Sea. In the early part of their career they offered the conquered territory to the Czar, and received in return a pardon for their misdeeds on the Don. History furnishes no parallel to this conquest, which was made by a few hundred outlaws, and carried to a successful end with little assistance from others and no support from the Government. But to return to the Cossacks of to-day: [Illustration: Leaguin. Cossack of the Don. Circassian. Tartar Cossack of the Crimea. Cossack of the Caucasus. Cossack of the Ural. THE RUSSIAN ARMY--IRREGULAR TROOPS.] "The Cossacks are a race of freemen. With only a few exceptions, none of them have ever been serfs. The whole land where they live belongs to them in common, and they have equal rights in hunting and fishing. They pay no taxes to Government, but in place of taxes are required to give a certain number of days' service in each year. Every Cossack feeds and equips himself at his own expense, and provides and feeds his horse. If called to serve outside the boundaries of his own country, he receives rations for himself and horse and a small amount of pay; but this ceases when he returns to his own land. The Cossacks have their own officers, which were formerly chosen by themselves, but are now appointed by the Government, the latter usually being careful to send officers such as the Cossacks approve. "The military organization of the Cossacks is in ten great divisions called '_woisskos_,' that of the Don being the largest. Each _woissko_ furnishes, according to its population, a certain number of regiments fully armed and equipped, and constantly under military discipline. These regiments must be prepared to march for active service ten days after being notified. Altogether in time of war the Cossacks of the various parts of the Empire, available for war service, are about one hundred and fifty thousand men. "They are splendid horsemen, and their best service is as cavalry. They can endure hunger, cold, and fatigue beyond ordinary soldiers, and are very troublesome to an enemy. In the retreat of Napoleon's army from Moscow they made great havoc, and many thousands of French soldiers fell beneath the Cossack lance and sabre. They have an undeserved reputation for cruelty, as they are probably no worse, and certainly no better, than other kinds of soldiers. War at its best is a cruel business, and in no age of the world has it been the custom for armies to refrain from hurting their enemies when it was in their power to do so." This conversation occupied most of the time while the boat was steaming from Cronstadt to St. Petersburg. Seated near our friends was an officer whose coat did not show any buttons. It was fastened with hooks like those on a lady's dress, and Frank called attention to its peculiarity. Doctor Bronson explained that the officer was of the Cossack branch of the service, this being the distinguishing feature of the Cossack uniform. The Cossack soldier wears a sheepskin coat, fastened with a girdle at the waist. He abhors buttons, and the uniform of the officers is made to conform to their tastes. On the lower deck of the boat was a squad of soldiers, under command of a sergeant, who had probably been to Cronstadt on some official duty, and were now returning. Fred called attention to the singular hats worn by the soldiers, each hat having a high plate of brass in front, and reminding the youths of the hats worn by the soldiers in the comic opera of the "Grand-duchess of Gerolstein." "It is not unlike a coal-scuttle in shape," said Fred, "and must be an uncomfortable piece of head-gear." "That is a regiment which was organized in the time of the Emperor Paul," said the Doctor, "and the design of the hat was made by him--at least that is what a Russian officer told me. Observe that there is a perforation in the brass of each hat, as though made by a bullet, and some of the hats have two or three holes. "The tradition is," continued the Doctor, "that the regiment once showed cowardice when brought face to face with the French invaders during the war of 1812. In the next battle they were put in the front, and kept there; half their number were killed, and nearly every hat was perforated by a bullet. Since that time the helmets are preserved just as they were when the battle ended. When a new helmet is ordered to replace an old one, it is perforated just as was its predecessor. Hence the curious appearance of the soldiers of the grenadier regiment organized by Paul. "The discipline of the Russian army is severe, and there are no better regiments, either for parade or fighting purposes, than those stationed in the neighborhood of the great cities. Reviews of the army are held frequently. When the Emperor goes in person to the grand review every year the sight is a magnificent one. [Illustration: GRAND-DUKE MICHAEL.] "The Russian Imperial family is full of soldierly qualities, which is not at all strange when we remember their training. Sometimes it is pushed to an extreme degree. The Grand-duke Michael, brother of the Emperor Nicholas, is said to have been one of the most rigid disciplinarians ever known; and whenever he inspected a division, not a button, or even the point of a mustache, escaped his notice. Parades were his delight, and he could ride at full gallop along the front of a line and detect the least irregularity. He used to say, "'I detest war; it interferes with parades, and soils the uniforms.' "He disliked the Cossacks because they did not appear well at reviews; in his eyes their excellent fighting qualities were of minor importance. "The Cossacks carry their cartridges in a row of pockets on the breasts of their coats, and not in cartridge-boxes, as do other soldiers. The Grand-duke thought a soldier's uniform was incomplete without a cartridge-box, probably for the reason that it gave him a certain amount of work to keep it clean and bright. This was another reason for his dislike of the irregular troops, which form such an effective arm of the service in time of war." The steamer deposited its passengers at the quay near Admiralty Square, and our friends again trod the soil of St. Petersburg, after an interesting and instructive day in the environs of the city. Frank and Fred devoted the evening to writing out what they had learned during the trip to Peterhof and Cronstadt, and especially to making notes upon the army and navy of Russia. To refresh their memories, they referred to a copy of "The Statesman's Year-book," which happened to be in the room, and said they would cordially recommend it to others who might seek similar information. [Illustration: IRON-CLAD STEAMER OF THE BALTIC FLEET.] CHAPTER VIII. VISITING THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. PETERSBURG.--EDUCATION IN RUSSIA.--PRIMARY AND OTHER SCHOOLS.--THE SYSTEM OF INSTRUCTION.--RECENT PROGRESS IN EDUCATIONAL MATTERS.--UNIVERSITIES IN THE EMPIRE; THEIR NUMBER AND LOCATION.--RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.--TREATMENT OF THE JEWS.--THE ISLANDS OF THE NEVA, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--IN A _TRAKTIR_.--BRIBERY AMONG RUSSIAN OFFICIALS. Next morning the party was out in good season. It had an appointment with a professor attached to the University of St. Petersburg for a visit to that institution. He was to take breakfast with them, and afterwards would escort them through the library and other rooms of the establishment. While they were at breakfast the professor entertained the youths with an account of the educational condition of Russia, which we will endeavor to repeat as nearly as it was remembered by Frank and Fred. "On behalf of my country," said the professor, "I am sorry to say that we are behind England, Germany, Austria, and most other nations of Europe in the matter of general education, but not nearly as backward as we were in past years. We have no system of common-schools such as you have in the United States, and the mass of the population is practically without instruction beyond what they receive from the village priests. Down to the time of Alexander II. the village schools were controlled by the priests, and no one else could be a teacher in them. That progressive monarch issued an order requiring the schools to be given to the most capable applicants, whether priests or not. This was a great step in advance, as the priests were not unfrequently nearly as illiterate as the people they were set to instruct. "To show how we are progressing, let me say that in 1860 only two out of every hundred recruits levied for the army were able to read and write; in 1870 the proportion had increased to eleven in a hundred, and in 1882 to nineteen in a hundred. In 1880 there were 22,770 primary-schools in the villages, with 1,140,915 pupils: 904,918 boys and 235,997 girls. The teachers were 19,511 men and 4878 women. Some of the primary-schools are entirely supported by the Government, and others partly by the Government and partly by a small tax upon the parents of each pupil. The latter plan is not satisfactory, as it discourages poor people with many children from sending them to school, and it is probable that in a few years all the schools will be free." [Illustration: LITTLE FOLKS AT SCHOOL.] One of the youths asked what was taught in the village schools of Russia. "Reading and writing," the professor answered, "are the first things, as a matter of course; and then come arithmetic, grammar, and geography, in the order I have named them. Church and State are so closely connected in Russia that the primary education includes the form of prayer; it is a part of the daily exercise of the schools, except for those who profess other than the orthodox faith, and in former times children of dissenters were not allowed to attend the schools. Catholics, Lutherans, and others were instructed by their own teachers, and, failing this, they had no instruction whatever. At present children of any faith can attend the village schools, and where there is a mixed population the schools are divided. "In 1850," the professor continued, "there were less than three thousand village schools in the Empire; the increase to more than twenty-two thousand in thirty years shows how rapid has been our progress. We have great hopes for the future, and at the end of another thirty years I trust you will find us not much behind the other countries of Europe." [Illustration: LEARNING TO WEAVE.] Doctor Bronson asked about the higher instruction in Russia, and how it compared with that of other lands. "One of the drawbacks to higher education in its broad sense," said the professor, "was the custom that prevailed, and still prevails to a great extent, for rich people to educate their children at home. Every nobleman who could afford it had a tutor for his boys and a governess for his girls. There is no country where tutors and governesses were more certain of employment than in Russia, and I have the assurances from them, a hundred times repeated, that they were better treated here than anywhere else. A tutor or governess is almost invariably made a member of the family, sits with them at table, is presented to visitors, forms a part of their social circle, and is made to feel thoroughly at home. Governesses are usually English or French, while tutors are generally French or Germans. The education of these home taught children begins at a very early age, and they naturally speak with fluency the language of their instructors; hence it follows that the Russians of the higher classes have, justly, the reputation of being the best linguists of Europe." As the professor paused, Frank remarked that he had observed how almost every Russian officer spoke French or German, and many of them spoke French, German, and English. "French seems to be almost universal among them," he added, "at least as far as I have been able to learn." "That is true," said the professor, "and there are many Russians who speak French better than they do their own language. With French nurses in their infancy, French governesses or tutors as their years advance, and with their parents speaking French, it is not to be wondered at. "The system of home education discouraged the education of the schools among the nobility, and it was only during the reign of Nicholas that a change was made. Count Ouvaroff, Minister of Public Instruction under the Iron Czar, set the example by sending his own son to the University of St. Petersburg. The example was followed, and the attendance at the universities and normal schools increased rapidly. Nicholas gave the system a military character by decreeing that the students should wear cocked hats and swords, but this was abandoned by Alexander II. The policy of Nicholas was shown in the words of his instruction to Count Ouvaroff, 'Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality.'" Fred asked how many universities and high-schools there were in the Empire. [Illustration: MINERAL CABINET IN THE UNIVERSITY.] "There are nine universities," the professor answered, "situated at St. Petersburg, Moscow, Kief, Kazan, Wilna, Dorpat, Kharkov, Odessa, and Warsaw.[2] The professors are paid by the Government, and the poor students have an allowance for their support. To be admitted to the universities, they must pass an examination in the course of instruction in the gymnasia or high-schools, which are in the provincial towns, about four hundred in all, or must have received equivalent instruction at home. The high-schools or gymnasia correspond to your academies or high-schools in America, and hold the same relation to the universities. [2] Recently the Government decided to establish a Siberian university. It was to be opened at Tomsk in 1886, but there was great opposition to it by a large and influential party, who claim that a Siberian university would be a great peril to autocracy in Russia. They look upon Siberia as the source of many liberal, and therefore dangerous, ideas, and say the new university will greatly facilitate their development. "Besides the universities, which confer degrees in law, medicine, mathematics, natural history, philology, and the Oriental languages, there are distinct schools of medicine and law, like the medical and law schools of other countries. There are four free high-schools for the education of women, and the applicants for admission are constantly in excess of the facilities for their instruction. There was a medical school for women, but it was closed in 1884 on account of its use as a means of disseminating revolutionary ideas." Frank and Fred wished to obtain further information about the reason for closing this medical school, but they remembered that the professor would probably dislike to discuss the subject, as it had a political bearing, and so no question about it was asked. Breakfast was over, and the party entered the carriage, which was waiting at the door, and were driven to the university. "One thing I forgot to say," said the professor, as soon as they were seated in the vehicle, "and that was about education in Finland. The grand-duchy has a system of public instruction distinct from that of the rest of the Empire. It has a university at Helsingfors, high-schools in all principal towns, and elementary schools in the villages. Almost the entire population can read, and nearly every youth can write during his school-days, though he often forgets this accomplishment in later years. [Illustration: PARLOR IN A HIGH-SCHOOL FOR WOMEN.] "To return to Russia, all through the Empire there are agricultural, mining, engineering, and other industrial schools, and there are also numerous military schools, which have a separate system of instruction. The cadets are transferred from the military gymnasia to the 'military schools,' in which they are educated to qualify them for commissions as officers. There are three academies--for the staff, engineers, and artillery--and in these academies the higher branches of military science are taught. The religious schools are attached to the Church, and the instruction is managed by the clergy. Here we are at the university just as my impromptu lecture upon education in Russia has reached its end." Our friends were introduced by their companion to several others of the faculty, and passed an hour at the university very pleasantly. They learned that the usual attendance was about four hundred, and the professors and lecturers numbered nearly thirty. In addition to what is usually taught in universities there were lecturers upon the Oriental languages. A goodly number of students give their attention to the Asiatic tongues, with a view to qualifying themselves for future usefulness in that direction. The Professor of Chinese was among those to whom our friends were introduced. "He is an accomplished gentleman," said Frank in his note-book; "he speaks French and Russian as fluently as he does his native language, and his questions about America showed that he was well acquainted with the history of our country. The rest of the Oriental professors were in European dress, but the Chinese one was not. He was in the same garments he would wear at Shanghai or Peking, and his hair was plaited into an irreproachable pigtail. [Illustration: PRIVATE ROOM OF A WEALTHY STUDENT.] "The halls were pleasant and spacious," continued Frank, "and the students that we saw had intelligent faces; they appeared much like the students at an English university, but we thought there was an expression of more earnestness in their faces. The professor told us that the young men who attended the university gave very little trouble in the matter of discipline, and the disgraceful pranks of students at Oxford and Cambridge were practically unknown in Russia. It is so recently that education has been in the reach of everybody in this country that its value is more appreciated than elsewhere. [Illustration: LOWER RECITATION-ROOM.] "The library contains more than sixty thousand volumes, and there is a good scientific collection in the museum. The students have the privilege of visiting the Academy of Sciences, under certain restrictions, where they have access to a library of one hundred and fifty thousand volumes and an extensive museum. The latter has an Asiatic department, which contains many objects of great interest to students of matters pertaining to Asia. We went to the museum after seeing the university and looked at the remains of the Siberian mammoths, which were found embedded in the ice where they had lain for thousands of years. [Illustration: ONE OF THE PROFESSORS.] "Another educational institution of St. Petersburg is the School of Mines, which is supported by the Government and has about three hundred students. Its collection of minerals is said to be the finest in the world. There are single nuggets of gold worth thousands of dollars, great masses of solid silver, platinum, copper, and other metals, together with topaz, beryl, aquamarine, quartz, and other crystals in great variety and of unusual size and beauty. One crystal of beryl weighs five pounds and is valued at twenty-five thousand dollars. [Illustration: DESCENDING A SHAFT.] "In the halls devoted to instruction there are models of mines, with the veins of ore, and the machinery for working them; the workmen are represented by little figures like dolls, and the whole is admirably executed. After looking at these models we were taken to the garden, where there is a section of a mine, through which we were guided by means of candles and torches. It required very little imagination for us to believe we were actually in a mine far below the surface of the earth, and that the veins of ore were real rather than fictitious. It must be of great advantage for the education of the students, and certainly we found it very instructive in the little time we were in it. [Illustration: GALLERIES IN A MINE.] "What would you say if I told you that the richest public library of Europe is in St. Petersburg? Well, the Imperial Library may not be superior to all others, but those who ought to know say it is not inferior in any respect. It occupies a very large building on the Nevsky Prospect, and is open to the public like the great libraries of London, Paris, Vienna, and other cities. The custodian who accompanied us through the building said it contained nearly a million printed volumes, in all the languages of the world, and about thirty thousand manuscripts, some of them very old. [Illustration: IN THE LIBRARY.] The foundation of this immense library was one of the spoils of war between Russia and Poland. It belonged to Count Zalewski, a Polish bishop, and contained three hundred thousand volumes. After the capture of Warsaw, in 1796, the library was removed to St. Petersburg, and since that time yearly additions have been made, until it has reached its present condition. Among other things there is a collection of books relating to Russia in other languages than Russian. They number forty thousand, and cover all dates from the invention of the art of printing down to the present time. Then there are nearly one hundred thousand books in the Russian language, beginning with a volume of the 'Acts of the Apostles,' printed at Moscow in 1538. "There is a prayer-book which belonged to Mary Queen of Scots, and which contains many notes in her handwriting. There are autographs of kings, queens, emperors, princes, and other persons of blue blood--so many that I can't begin to enumerate them. In fact there are so many things here that one might spend weeks in the library, and find something new and interesting every few minutes. The reading-room is well arranged, and has all the leading papers of Europe. To show its growth in popularity, let me say that it was visited by twenty thousand persons in 1854, and by seventy-three thousand in 1864. In more recent times as many as one hundred and fifty thousand persons have visited the reading-room in a single year. [Illustration: A COLLEGE DORMITORY.] "Well, we have had enough for one day of schools, libraries, museums, and the like--so many of them that our heads are fairly swimming. Let us go home and think over what we have seen; if we remember a tenth part of it we shall be fortunate." Naturally the conversation, after their return, related to what they had seen; and in this connection the Doctor gave the youths some interesting information. "The university we have seen to-day," said he, "is not by any means the oldest in Russia, nor is it the largest. The honor of age and extent belongs to the University of Moscow, which was founded in 1755, while that of St. Petersburg was founded in 1818. The Moscow University has one thousand eight hundred students, and seventy-two professors and lecturers, and there are one hundred and fifty thousand volumes in its library. The Government gives about three hundred thousand dollars annually in aid of the Moscow University, and many of Russia's most celebrated men have been educated there. "The oldest university in the Empire was at Abo, in Finland, but the buildings were destroyed in a great fire in 1827, and afterwards the university was established at Helsingfors. It was originally founded in 1630, eleven years before printing was introduced into Finland. Anciently there were some curious customs connected with the reception of a student at the University of Abo. He was required to prostrate himself on the floor in front of one of the professors, who gave him a certain number of blows with a stick. The blows were more imaginary than real, and after they were given the student was ordered to rise, and to so conduct himself in future that he would never need a repetition of the indignity. "The other universities of Russia are about like that of St. Petersburg, and do not need a special description. In all of them there is a department of study for those who wish to enter the service of the Church. At Dorpat there is a course of study for those of the Lutheran faith, and at Kazan, which has a considerable population of Tartars, Moslem students are admitted, and no interference is made with their religious belief. Some of the professors of the Oriental languages are Tartars, and I have been told that one of the rooms of the university is fitted up as a mosque. "This is a good place to say," continued the Doctor, "that while the Russian Government makes an earnest effort to convert all its subjects to the faith of the Orthodox Greek Church, it rarely allows that effort to take the form of oppression. Sometimes it happens that an over-zealous priest goes beyond the limit; but as soon as his conduct is known to the proper authorities he is reprimanded, and replaced by one who is more cautious. The Polish exiles in Siberia are nearly all Catholics; the Government builds churches for them, and allows their priests (generally exiles like their co-religionists) to travel from place to place in the performance of their religious duties; and as long as they do not join in any political plots, or make other trouble for the authorities, they are allowed the greatest freedom. Among the peasant inhabitants of Siberia a Catholic church is called 'Polish,' while a Lutheran one is known as 'German.' "The Moslem and Pagan inhabitants of Asiatic Russia have the most complete religious freedom; but sometimes, in their zeal to be on good terms with their rulers, they adopt the new religion without laying aside the old. I have heard of the chief of a tribe of Yakouts, a savage and idolatrous people in Northern Siberia, who joined the Russian Church and was baptized. He attended faithfully to all its observances, and at the same time did not neglect anything pertaining to his old belief. When about to make a journey, or to undertake any other enterprise, he offered prayers in the church, and then summoned the _shaman_, or Pagan priest of his tribe, to perform incantations and bribe the evil spirits not to molest him. On being questioned as to his action, he said he was not certain which belief was the right one, and he wanted to make sure by professing both." One of the youths asked the Doctor about the treatment of the Jews in Russia. He had read that they were greatly oppressed in some parts of the Empire, and that many of them had been killed for no other reason than that they were Jews. "That is quite true," the Doctor answered; "but the outrages were the work of excited mobs, rather than acts authorized by the Government. There is much fanaticism among the lower orders of Russians, and they were roused to what they did by stories which the priests had circulated. In some of the riots the police and soldiers are accused of making no effort to restrain the mob; and as they and the rioters are of the same religion, there is doubtless good ground for the accusation. [Illustration: JEWISH BURIAL-GROUND.] "The Jews were first admitted to Russia by Peter the Great, but they were expelled by his daughter, the Empress Elizabeth. They were readmitted by Catherine II., and the privileges she had given them were increased by Alexander I., who, in 1808 and 1809, issued decrees giving them full liberty of trade and commerce. The grant was revoked by Nicholas I., and during his time the Jews were subjected to much oppression. Alexander II. came to their relief, and restored some of their privileges. During and since his reign they have been fairly treated in matters of trade, but have been kept down in other ways. Only a certain number are allowed to practise medicine or keep drug-stores, and only a specified proportion of Jewish students is allowed at the schools and colleges. [Illustration: CLOTHES-DEALER OF MOSCOW.] "A great deal of the trade of the country is in their hands, and they are noted, as everywhere else in the world, for their industry and frugality. They do not meddle with the politics of Russia, and the instances are exceedingly rare of a Jew being convicted of offences of a political character. In the army they make the best of soldiers, both for discipline and on the battle-field, where they are noted for their bravery. They are more numerous in Poland than in any other part of the Empire, but there is not a province of the whole country ruled by the Czar where they cannot be found. In their financial transactions they are not behind their brethren in other parts of the world; and wherever they are permitted to engage in mechanical pursuits they distance all their competitors." [Illustration: A RUSSIAN TROIKA.] Just as the sun was setting, our friends took a carriage and drove to the Islands of the Neva, a favorite resort of the people in the warm months of the year. Great numbers of fashionable carriages were on the road, _troikas_ being more numerous than any other variety. A _troika_ is so called from the number of its horses, rather than from the form of the vehicle. Three horses are harnessed abreast, the central one having above his head the inevitable _duga_, or yoke. In a well-trained _troika_ the central horse trots, while the two others gallop, with their heads turned outward. It is a dashing and attractive team, and has already made its way into other countries than Russia. The first part of the drive carried Doctor Bronson and his young companions through streets occupied by the poorer classes, but farther on they passed great numbers of pretty villas, which are the summer homes of the well-to-do inhabitants of the city. [Illustration: A VILLA ON THE ISLAND.] There is an Imperial villa on one of the islands, and occasionally the Emperor gives a fête in honor of some event, or for the entertainment of a foreign guest. At such times the trees are filled with Chinese lanterns, and the entire building is a blaze of light. The people on the line of the road follow the Imperial example, and illuminate their houses, and the traveller who drives there might easily imagine that he had dropped into a section of fairy-land. Doctor Bronson told the youths that he was in St. Petersburg at the time of the marriage of the Emperor's son, the Grand-duke Vladimir, and one of the sights of the occasion was the illumination of the islands. "We rode through three or four miles of illuminations," said the Doctor, "and it seemed as though they would never come to an end. At the very entrance of the islands we passed the summer residence of Count Gromoff, one of the millionaires of St. Petersburg, and found it transformed into a palace of fire. Not a tree or bush in the large garden in front of the house was without its cluster of lanterns, and one of our party remarked that it seemed as though half the stars in the sky had fallen and found a lodgement there. In the centre of the scene were the monograms of the Emperor and Empress, and of the newly-wedded pair, outlined in gas-jets; above and behind them was an Imperial mantle surmounted with a crown, and all made with the burning gas. Then the whole cottage was delineated with thousands of lights, and we agreed that never in our lives had we seen such a beautiful picture. Nothing ever produced on the stage of a theatre could equal it. "Occasionally we came near the water, and wherever we did so it was covered with boats which were as freely illuminated as the trees and houses on shore. Boat-houses and bath-houses were similarly lighted up, and as they are numerous in this part of the Neva, they formed an almost continuous line along the river's bank. We were compelled to go at a walk, as the streets and roads were crowded with vehicles, and consequently our drive through this city of lanterns occupied more than an hour." Doctor Bronson gave other details of the celebration which we have not time to repeat, or, rather, they did not find a place in the note-books of the youths. The time was passed pleasantly in a contemplation of the scenes by the way-side--the pretty villas among the trees, the carriages and their occupants, the people on foot, or gathered in front of the houses or on the verandas, the crowds in the cafés and restaurants, which are scattered here and there over the islands, together with other sights that met their eyes. There was enough to make the fortune of an artist if he could have placed all the pretty pictures of the evening upon canvas, and preserved the glow of the northern sky and the twinkle of the lights. A few houses were illuminated, probably in honor of a patron saint, or to commemorate an event in the history of the owner of the establishment. While looking at these illuminations Frank and Fred tried to imagine the whole place lighted up as Doctor Bronson had described it on the occasion of the Imperial fête. [Illustration: A RUSSIAN FAMILY.] After a ride of two hours or more, the party returned to the hotel, stopping a few minutes on their way to drink some tea at a _traktir_. Frank ventured to air the few Russian words he had acquired, and acquitted himself in fine style. "_Dai te chai, poshowltz_" ("Give us tea, please"), he said, as they took their seats at the table. "_Si chass_," replied the waiter, and in a few moments three glasses of steaming tea were before them. The traveller in Russia will hear "_Si chass_" pronounced a good many times daily while he is in the Empire. It is like the French waiter's "_Tout de suite_" or the English one's "Coming, sir." Practically they mean the same thing. The literal translation of "_Si chass_" is "This hour;" and perhaps this will account for the fact that it is often an hour before a simple demand can be met. The waiter in Russia is no more reliable than in other countries, and not generally as intelligent as the man of the same occupation in a French café. Many of the servants in the hotels of St. Petersburg are French or German, instead of Russian; in the best hotels the Russian waiters almost invariably speak French or German, in addition to their own language. When the tea-drinking was ended, Frank beckoned the waiter, and addressed him with the inquiry, "_Skolka stoit_" ("How much does it cost?"). The waiter comprehended at once, and, somewhat to Frank's disappointment, placed on the table a written check on which was noted in figures the indebtedness of the party. The disappointment was not caused by the price of the tea (only five copecks the glass), but by the removal of the opportunity for the young man to make further airing of his Russian by displaying his knowledge of the spoken numerals. The printed or written figures of the Russian language are the same as those of other European nations, and a stranger can get along with them without the least trouble, even though he does not know a word of Russian. Near the hotel they met a party consisting of two policemen and as many prisoners. The latter appeared to be under the influence of strong drink, and the policemen did not find it easy to make them move along. They were not quarrelsome or obstinate; in fact, their limbs were too weak to allow them to make any resistance. "They'll have a job of street-sweeping to-morrow," said the Doctor, "unless the customs have changed since the first time I was here." "Do they make prisoners sweep the streets?" one of the youths asked. [Illustration: CULPRIT STREET-SWEEPERS.] "They did at that time, and quite likely they do so now," the Doctor answered. "Every person arrested for intoxication was required to sweep the streets the next day for a given number of hours, and it is a strange sight when, as sometimes happens, the sweepers are in the garments in which they have been wending their devious ways homeward from a ball, or perhaps from a party where fancy costumes have been worn. Generally speaking, you see few besides the mujiks, or lower classes, as the well-dressed people, with money enough in their pockets, can secure immunity by means of a bribe. A small donation to the proper officer will set them free; but if they have no money they must do their share of work with the rest." "I have read that Russia is the land of bribes," said Fred--"bribes both great and small." "It certainly has that reputation," was the reply, "and doubtless not without justice. The pay of the officials is very small, quite out of proportion to the expense of living, and the temptation is certainly great. A Russian once said to me that an official must steal in order to make an honest living; he did not mean it as a joke, but in sober earnest, though his language did not exactly express his meaning. He wanted to say that a man must accept pay for showing zeal in the interest of any one whose affairs passed through his hands, and unless he did so he could not properly support himself and family. [Illustration: A BUSINESS TRANSACTION.] "There is a story, of a German savant who was intimate with the Emperor Nicholas. The latter once asked him to point out any defects in the system of government, and the savant immediately suggested the universal system of bribery, which ought to be stopped. The Emperor shook his head, and said it was impossible to put an end to an evil which was so widely spread. "'But your Majesty could issue an Imperial decree against bribery,' the savant replied, 'and that would prevent it.' "'But I would have to begin,' said the Emperor, 'by bribing my Prime-minister to publish the decree, and then I would have to bribe everybody else to stop taking bribes.' "I will tell you," the Doctor continued, "what I have been told by Russians; I do not vouch for the correctness of what they say, but have no doubt of their veracity. While I have had no business transactions that involved the payment of money to officials, I have some friends whose negotiations were altogether stopped, as they believe, by the fact that they would not give money to persons of influence. "'If you have dealings with the Government,' so the Russians have told me, 'you must pay something to each and every man who has power to expedite or hinder your business. If you do not pay you will not prosper, and may be certain that your proposals will be rejected. But you should not offer the money directly to the official, as that would give great offence.' "The question arises, 'What is the polite and proper way of doing such nefarious work?' "The usual way is to make up your mind what you can afford to pay, and then put the money in a cigar-case along with two or three cigars. Having stated the business, you invite the man to smoke (everybody smokes in Russia), and then you hand him the cigar-case and turn your back to the window, or look intently at something on the table. He helps himself to a cigar, and also to the money, and then the affair goes on easily.'" "What a rascally business!" exclaimed both the youths in a breath. Doctor Bronson fully echoed their sentiment, and said he earnestly hoped the condition of things was not as bad as it is portrayed. "Alexander II. made a considerable improvement in many things during his reign," the Doctor continued, "and it is to be hoped that he reformed the official system of the Empire in this particular feature." [Illustration: PETER THE GREAT DRESSED FOR BATTLE.] CHAPTER IX. STUDIES OF ST. PETERSBURG.--MUJIKS.--"THE IMPERIAL NOSEGAY."--A SHORT HISTORY OF RUSSIAN SERFDOM.--ITS ORIGIN, GROWTH, AND ABUSES.--EMANCIPATION OF THE SERFS.--PRESENT CONDITION OF THE PEASANT CLASS.--SEEING THE EMPEROR.--HOW THE CZAR APPEARS IN PUBLIC.--PUBLIC AND SECRET POLICE.--THEIR EXTRAORDINARY POWERS.--ANECDOTES OF POLICE SEVERITY.--RUSSIAN COURTS OF LAW. For the remainder of their stay in the capital Doctor Bronson and the youths were more leisurely in their movements than during the first few days. They dismissed the guide, as they felt that they could go around without his aid, though they occasionally re-engaged him for special trips when they thought their inexperience would be a bar to their progress. In thus acting they followed out a plan adopted long before. On arriving in a strange city where time was limited, they engaged a guide, in order that they might "do" the stock sights of the place as quickly as possible. If they were to remain for some time they employed him during the first two or three days, and afterwards shifted for themselves. This is an excellent system, and is recommended to all readers of this volume who may have occasion to travel in foreign lands. Having familiarized themselves with St. Petersburg, our friends usually spent the forenoon of each day at the hotel, and the afternoon and part of the evening in going about the streets, making calls, and otherwise improving their opportunities. The forenoon was by no means an idle time. Doctor Bronson was busy with his letters and other matters, while the youths were engaged in writing up their journals, preparing the histories which have been mentioned elsewhere, and making various notes and observations concerning what they saw or learned. In this way they accumulated much valuable material, and we are specially fortunate in being permitted to copy at will from what they wrote. "We have found a great deal to interest us," said Frank in his journal, when he sat down to make a general commentary on what they had seen, "and I hardly know where to begin. Of course we have been much impressed with the great number and variety of the uniforms of the officers and soldiers of the army; and though we have tried hard to recognize the different arms of the service at sight, we have not always succeeded. We wonder how the Emperor himself can know them all, but of course he must. [Illustration: AN IMPERIAL NOSEGAY.] "We have looked for 'The Imperial Nosegay' which one traveller describes, but have failed thus far to find it. The story goes that one of the Emperors had a regiment composed of men whose noses were turned up at an angle of forty-five degrees; whenever a man was found anywhere in the Empire with that particular kind of nose he was at once drafted into the regiment. A good many of the peasants have the nose inclined very much in the air, but facial ornaments of the kind described for the famous regiment are not strictly the fashion. "Fred thinks a regiment composed in this way ought to be good soldiers, as they would be able to smell the smoke of battle a long way off, and before other regiments would be aware of it. Certainly they ought to breathe easily, and this ability was considered of great importance by the first Napoleon. 'Other things being equal,' he used to say, 'always choose an officer with a large nose. His respiration is more free than that of the small-nosed man; and with good breathing powers, his mind is clearer and his physical endurance greater.' Perhaps he realized on his retreat from Moscow that many of his pursuers were of the kind he describes. [Illustration: MUJIKS PLAYING CARDS.] "We have been much interested in the mujiks, or peasants--the lowest class of the population, and also the largest. Their condition has improved greatly in the last twenty or thirty years, if what we read and hear is correct. We had read of the system of serfdom in Russia before we came here, but did not exactly understand it. Since our arrival in St. Petersburg we have tried to find out about the serfs, and here is what we have learned: "To begin at the end, rather than at the beginning, there are no longer any serfs in Russia, and consequently we are talking about something that belongs to the past. Serfdom, or slavery, formerly existed throughout all Europe--in England, France, Germany, Spain, and other countries. It has been gradually extinguished, Russia being the last Christian country to maintain it. Slavery still exists in certain forms in Turkey; but as the Turks are Moslems, and not Christians, I don't see why we should expect anything better in that country. "Serfdom began later in Russia than in any other European country, and perhaps that fact excuses the Russians for being the last to give it up. Down to the eleventh century the peasant could move about pretty much as he liked. The land was the property of all, and he could cultivate any part of it as long as he did not trespass upon any one else. In many of the villages the land is still held on this communistic principle, and is allotted every year, or every two or three years, by the elders. In some communities the land must be surrendered to the commune every nine years, while in others the peasant has a life tenancy, or what is called in law a fee-simple. "I hear some one ask how it came about that serfdom was established. "According to our authorities, it came from the state of the country, which was just a little better than a collection of independent principalities. The princes were cruel and despotic, and the people turbulent; murders of princes were very common; the princes could only protect themselves by organizing large body-guards, which gave each prince a small army of men around him. In course of time the officers of these body-guards became noblemen, and received grants of land. At first the peasants could move about on these estates with perfect freedom, but during the sixteenth century they were attached to the soil. In other words, they were to remain where they were when the decree was issued, and whenever the land was sold they were sold with it. "It is said that the object of this decree was not so much in the interest of the land-owners as in that of the Government, which was unable to collect its taxes from men who were constantly moving about. Where the land belonged to the Government and not to individuals, the peasants living upon it became serfs of the Crown, or Crown peasants. Thus the Russian serf might belong to a prince, nobleman, or other person, or he might belong to the Government. Private estates were often mortgaged to the Government; if the mortgage was unpaid and the property forfeited, the serfs became Crown peasants instead of private ones. [Illustration: PEASANT'S HOUSE IN SOUTHERN RUSSIA.] "There was a curious condition about serfdom in Russia, that while the man and his family belonged to the master, the land which he cultivated was his own, or at any rate could not be taken from him. The serf owed a certain amount of labor to his master (ordinarily three days out of every seven), and could not leave the place without permission. A serf might hire his time from his master, in the same way that slaves used to hire their time in America; but he was required to return to the estate whenever the master told him to do so. Many of the mechanics, isvoshchiks, and others in the large cities before the emancipation were serfs, who came to find employment, and regularly sent a part of their wages to their masters. "Sometimes the masters were very severe upon the serfs, and treated them outrageously. A master could send a serf into exile in Siberia without giving any reason. The record said he was banished 'by the will of his master,' and that was all. A woman, a serf on an estate, who had a fine voice, came to Moscow, and found a place in the chorus at the opera-house. She gradually rose to a high position, and was earning a large salary, half of which she sent to her master. Out of caprice he ordered her back to the estate, where she resumed the drudgery of a peasant life. He refused all offers of compensation, and said his serf should do what he wished. "Another serf had established a successful business in Moscow, where he was employing two or three hundred workmen. The master allowed him to remain there for years, taking for his compensation a large part of the serf's earnings, and finally, in a fit of anger, ordered the man home again. The man offered to pay a hundred times as much as he could earn on the estate, but the master would not listen to it, and the business was broken up and ruined. "Things went on in this way for two or three centuries. Various changes were made in the laws, and the condition of the serfs, especially of those belonging to the Crown, was improved from time to time. At last, in 1861, came the decree of emancipation from the hands of Alexander II., and the system of serfdom came to an end. "It was not, as many people suppose, a system of sudden and universal freedom. The emancipation was gradual, as it covered a period of several years, and required a great deal of negotiation. The land-owners were compensated by the Government for their loss; the serfs received grants of land, varying from five to twenty-five acres, with a house and a small orchard, and the result was that every agricultural serf became a small land-owner. Private or Government serfs were treated alike in this respect, and the condition of the peasant class was greatly improved. "Since they have been free to go where they like, the serfs have crowded to the cities in search of employment, and the owners of factories and shops say they can now obtain laborers much easier than before. Manufacturing interests have been materially advanced along with agriculture, and though many persons feared the results of the emancipation, it is now difficult to find one who would like to have the old state of things restored. "Russian emancipation of the serfs and American abolition of slavery came within a short time of each other. Both the nations have been greatly benefited by the result, and to-day an advocate of serfdom is as rare in Russia as an advocate of slavery in the United States." Frank read to his cousin the little essay we have just quoted; then he read it to the Doctor, and asked whether it would be well to insert it in his journal. "By all means do so," the Doctor replied. "There are not many people in America who understand exactly what serfdom was, and your essay will do much to enlighten them." Accordingly Frank carefully copied what he had written. Impressed with Doctor Bronson's suggestion, we have reproduced it here, in the confidence that our youthful readers will find it interesting and instructive. [Illustration: PEASANTS' HUTS.] "You can add to your account of serfdom," said Doctor Bronson, "that when it was established by Boris Godounoff, in 1601, it was regarded by both peasant and noble as a great popular reform, and welcomed with delight. His decree went into force on Saint George's Day, in the year named, and its principal provision was that every peasant in the Empire should in future till and own forever the land which he then tilled and held. It was an act of great liberality on the part of the Czar, for by it he gave up millions of acres belonging to the Crown and made them the property of the peasants. "The serf of the Crown was to till the land, build his house, pay his taxes, and serve as a soldier whenever wanted; the private serf existed under very nearly the same conditions, with the difference that his life might be more oppressed under a cruel master, and more free under a kind one, than that of the serf of the Crown. This was what happened in many instances; and as the masters were more likely to be cruel than kind, and their tendency was to make as much as possible out of their possessions, the Crown serf was generally better off than the private one. [Illustration: ESTHONIAN PEASANTS.] "In the beginning the system was really the reform which was intended, but very soon it was subject to many abuses. Year by year things grew worse: owners violated the law by selling serfs away from their estates; the masters exacted from their serfs every copeck they could earn, flogged them if they lagged in their labor, and often caused them to be severely punished or exiled on the merest caprice. Peter the Great introduced some changes with the best intentions, but they only made matters worse. He stopped the sale of serfs from the estates, which was an excellent step; at the same time he ordered that all taxes should be collected in a lump from the master, who should have the power in turn to collect from the serfs. The evil of this enactment was very soon apparent; Peter's successors struggled with the problem, but none made much headway until Alexander II. came with his act of emancipation, which you have just mentioned. "There were several conditions attached to the freedom of the serf under Alexander's decree," the Doctor continued, "which are not generally understood. To prevent the peasant resuming again the nomadic life which serfdom was intended to suppress, it was ordered that no peasant could leave his village without surrendering forever all right to the lands, and he was also required to be clear of all claims for rent, taxes, conscription, private debts, and the like. He was to provide for the support of any members of his family dependent upon him whom he left behind, and also present a certificate of membership in another commune, or exhibit the title-deeds to a plot of land of not less than a given area. "These requirements were found an excellent restriction, as under them only the thrifty and enterprising serfs were able to clear off all demands upon them and pay the amount required for entering another community. Men of this class found their way to the cities and larger towns, where many of them have risen in wealth and influence, while the quiet, plodding peasants who remained on the estates and tilled their lands have generally prospered. A gentleman who has studied this question wrote recently as follows: "'Opposite and extreme opinions prevail as to the results of emancipation; yet, on massing and balancing his observations on the whole, a stranger must perceive that under emancipation the peasant is better dressed, better lodged, and better fed; that his wife is healthier, his children cleaner, and his homestead tidier; that he and his belongings are improved by the gift which changed him from a chattel to a man. He builds his cabin of better wood, and in the eastern provinces, if not in all, you find improvements in the walls and roof. He paints the logs, and fills up the cracks with plaster, where he formerly left them bare and stuffed with moss. He sends his boys to school, and goes himself more frequently to church.... The burgher class and the merchant class have been equally benefited by the change. A good many peasants have become burghers, and a good many burghers merchants. All the domestic and useful trades have been quickened into life. More shoes are worn, more carts are wanted, more cabins are built. Hats, coats, and cloaks are in higher demand; the bakeries and breweries find more to do; the teacher gets more pupils, and the banker has more customers on his books.'"[3] [3] "Free Russia," by Hepworth Dixon, p. 275. [Illustration: ALEXANDER II., THE LIBERATOR OF THE SERFS.] With a few more words upon serfdom and its relation to other forms of slavery, the subject was dropped, and our friends went out for a walk. As they passed along the Nevski they were suddenly involved in a crowd, and half forced into the door of a shop which they had visited the day before. They were recognized by the proprietor, who invited them to enter and make themselves comfortable. "The Emperor is coming in a few minutes," he explained, "and the police are clearing the way for him." One of the youths asked if it was always necessary to clear the streets in this way when the Emperor rode out. [Illustration: ALEXANDER III., EMPEROR OF RUSSIA.] "Not by any means," the shopkeeper replied, "as he often rides out in a drosky, with only a single attendant following him. He goes at full speed along the street, and his progress is so rapid that not one person in twenty can recognize him before he gets out of sight. If he goes less rapidly he is followed by several officers; and when he rides in a carriage with two or more horses, he is accompanied by his body-guard of Circassians, or by a company or section of Cossacks. "Nicholas and Alexander II. used to drive about quite frequently in a drosky, which was much like the ordinary ones on the streets, except that it was neater and more costly, and drawn by the finest horse the Empire could produce. Since the assassination of Alexander II., and the plots of the Nihilists against the Imperial life, we rarely see the Emperor driving in this way, as it would afford too much opportunity for assassins. Alexander III. generally rides in a carriage, accompanied by some of his officers and surrounded by his body-guard. Ah! here they come." As he spoke a squadron of cavalry came in sight, and soon passed the shop. Behind the cavalry was a carriage, drawn by two spirited horses. The Emperor occupied the rear seat, while two officers faced him on the front seat, and another officer, or possibly an orderly, was on the box with the driver. The crowd applauded as their ruler rode slowly by them, and to hear the plaudits one could readily believe that the Emperor is thoroughly beloved by his subjects. He acknowledged the cheering by occasionally raising his hand in a military salute. Frank thought he saluted in rather a mechanical way, from force of long habit. The youths said they would have recognized him by his portraits, though they were hardly prepared for the care-worn look which was depicted on his features. "After all," whispered Frank to Fred, "one can't be surprised at it, and I don't know who would want to change places with him. He must live in constant thought of assassination, and every step he takes must be carefully watched by those about him. So many plots have been made against his life, and so many persons of importance have been implicated in them, that he cannot know how soon a new one will be formed, and can never tell who about him is faithful. 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.'" Behind the carriage was a company of body-guards in Circassian chain-armor, and with weapons that belonged apparently to a past age. Fred eagerly asked who and what these men were. "They are _Cherkass_, or Circassians," replied the shopkeeper, "and were formerly at war with Russia. You have read of Schamyl, the Circassian general, who gave Russia a great deal of trouble for a long time, have you not?" [Illustration: BATTLE BETWEEN RUSSIANS AND CIRCASSIANS.] "Certainly," Fred answered, "I was reading about him only this morning. He was born about 1797, and from 1828 till 1859 he carried on a defensive war against the Russians, but was finally overpowered by greatly superior numbers. He used to avoid regular battles, and caused a great deal of damage to the Russians by ambuscades, surprises, and similar warfare." [Illustration: SCHAMYL'S VILLAGE IN THE CAUCASUS.] "That was exactly the case," said their informant, "and the Russians always acknowledged that he was an accomplished leader both in a military and political sense. When he surrendered, in 1859, the Emperor invited him to St. Petersburg, and gave him a residence at Kalooga, with a handsome pension. He was made a regular guest at court, was treated with great distinction, and soon became as ardent in the support of Russia as he had formerly been in opposing her. He was placed in command of the Emperor's body-guard, which he organized from the warriors that had formerly served under him. Schamyl died in 1871, but the organization of the guard was continued. It is whispered that the Circassians have been replaced by Russians who wear the old uniform; but certainly, to all outward appearances, the guard remains the same. At any rate it is picturesque, and that is an important consideration." The crowd that lined the sidewalk was kept well in hand by the police. The shopkeeper said that any man who tried to break through the line would be arrested at once; and no doubt the knowledge of this rule served materially to preserve order. Russian policemen are not to be trifled with. The route that the Emperor is to take when riding out is never known in these latter days, through fear of plots against his life. The precaution is a very proper one, but it requires a large police force to guard all the avenues and streets by which he may pass. Orders are sent for the police to prepare three or four routes, one only being traversed, and the direction is not given to the leader of the escort until the Emperor is seated in the carriage. Sometimes none of the routes which have been guarded are taken, and the Emperor enjoys a ride with nothing but his escort for his protection. It is said the Czar is averse to all this precaution, but is guided by the wishes of the Imperial Council and the members of his household. Our friends thanked the shopkeeper for his politeness and information, and, as the crowd had melted away, continued their walk. Frank observed that the police did not move away, and this fact led him to surmise that the Emperor intended returning by the same route. "Of course that is quite possible," said the Doctor, in response to Frank's suggestion, "but it is not worth our while to remain on the chance of his doing so. It is more than likely he will return to the palace by another road; and even if he comes through the Nevski we could see no more than we have seen already. Besides, we might arouse suspicion in the minds of the police by remaining long on this spot, and suspicion, however groundless, is not desirable. When the Emperor goes out the police have orders to arrest every one whose conduct is in the least degree questionable, and so we had better continue our walk." They suited their actions to the Doctor's word, and did not tarry on the Nevski. Very soon they met another cortege, which they ascertained to be the escort of the Chief of Police. [Illustration: THE EMPRESS MARIE FÉODOROVNA, WIFE OF ALEXANDER III.] They had a curiosity to see his face, but were disappointed, as he was closely surrounded by his officers and men. Doctor Bronson remarked that the Chief of Police was the most powerful man in Russia, next to the Emperor. "How is that?" Fred asked. "I thought the most powerful man next to the Emperor was the commander-in-chief of the armies." "There is this difference," the Doctor answered, "that the Chief of Police is the only man in Russia who has the right to go into the Emperor's presence at any hour of the day or night. Not even the Field-marshal-in-chief of the Army or the Grand Admiral of the Navy can do that. "The Ministers of War, Navy, and Foreign Affairs have a right to an audience with the Emperor every day, while the Ministers of Education, Railways and Telegraphs, Finance, and other home matters, can only see him once or twice a week. But at any hour of the day the Minister of Police can send his name, and immediately follows the messenger into the Emperor's office; at any hour of the night he may have the Emperor waked and told that the Minister of Police has an important communication to make." "Do you suppose that is often done?" one of the youths inquired. "Probably not very often," replied Doctor Bronson, "but how frequently the outside public cannot possibly know. In ordinary times it is not likely the minister would ever exercise his right, as it is not wise to wake an emperor from a sound sleep, especially when you have bad news for him. But when assassins are making plots all around the capital and palace, the Emperor's safety may easily require that he should have a personal warning. In such case the Minister of Police would not hesitate to perform his duty." [Illustration: RUSSIAN PEASANTS AT THEIR RECREATION.] Their walk took them to the Summer Gardens, where they sat down on one of the benches and watched the groups of children and nurse-maids, together with other groups of old and young that comprised the visitors to the place. As they sat there the conversation recurred to their recent topic, the police. "The public police is organized very much like the same service in other countries. There are some points of difference, but they are not great enough to be mentioned at length. One objection to the Russian public police is that in the cities and large towns the policemen are nearly all soldiers who have served their time in the army, and receive police appointments as rewards. Their long service in the army imbues them with the greatest deference to the uniform of an officer, no matter what its wearer may be. The result is the policemen salute every officer that passes, and thus their attention is drawn from their duties; furthermore, an officer can misbehave himself as much as he pleases, and run very little risk of being arrested like an ordinary offender." "What can you tell us about the secret police?" one of the youths asked. [Illustration: "WHO IS THE SPY?"] "I can't tell you much about it," was the reply; "and if I could it would not be a secret police. It used to be a saying that where three men were together one was sure to be a spy, and one or both the others might be. The spies were in all classes of society, and paid by the police. They did not know each other, and it quite often happened that two of them would report against each other, doubtless to the amusement of the officials who compared their documents. If common gossip is true, the evil was greater in the time of Nicholas than under any other emperor, but many people say it is about as bad at one time as another. "The clerk in the hotel, the waiter in the restaurant, the shopkeeper who was so polite to us, the tailor, hatter, boot-maker, milliner, or any other tradesman, any or all of them--women as well as men--may be in the employ of the Government, and report your movements and conversation. Nobody knows who is a spy, and nobody knows who is not. Consequently it is an excellent rule in Russia never to say anything in the hearing of any one else than ourselves that can be called in question. Mind, I don't know of my own knowledge that there is such a thing as a secret police, nor that such a person as a police spy exists in Russia. Having never said or done anything to which the Emperor or his most zealous officer could object, I have no fear of being interfered with. "Here are some of the stories which were current in the time of Nicholas: "A retired officer of the English army lived for several years in St. Petersburg. His manners were genial, and he made many friends both among the foreigners living here and those who visited Russia. He died suddenly one day, and one of his countrymen who was present at the time took charge of his effects. His papers revealed the fact that he was a spy of the Government, and was specially employed to watch foreigners. "Soon after the Revolution of 1848 a party of French gentlemen in St. Petersburg met at the house of one of their friends. They had songs and speeches, and a pleasant evening generally; and as all were intimate, and of the same nationality, they were not at all cautious about their conversation. The only servants present were Russians, and none of them was known to understand French. Next morning the host was summoned to the Police Bureau, where he was politely received. The official read off the list of persons present, and a very accurate report of the songs, toasts, and speeches of the evening. Then he asked the host if the account was correct. The latter tremblingly answered that it was, and was then told he had been very imprudent--an assertion he could not well deny. He was dismissed with a caution not to repeat the imprudence, and you may be sure he did not. He never gave another party, and never could he guess whether the spy was one of his guests and compatriots, or one of the servants who understood French while pretending to be ignorant of it. "A great reform has taken place, and matters which were formerly in the control of the police are now managed by courts of law. Trial by jury has been established, and though there are many hinderances on account of the scarcity of lawyers and judges and the ignorance of jurors, the system is working well. The law-schools are filled with students, and in a few years the machinery of the courts will not be unlike that of other lands. [Illustration: OFFICERS SITTING IN JUDGMENT.] "But the police power is still too great for the safety of the people, and probably no persons are more aware of it than are the Emperor and his advisers. The police can imprison or exile a man for 'administrative purposes' without any trial whatever, and without even letting him know the nature of his offence. The police may, in certain cases, revise a sentence which has been decreed by a court, and punish a man who has been acquitted after trial, but they do not often exercise the right. "The author of 'Free Russia' says that while he was staying at Archangel an actor and actress were brought there one day and set down in the public square, with orders to take care of themselves, but on no account to leave town without the governor's permission. They had been sent from the capital on a mere order of the police, without trial, without even having been heard in defence, and with no knowledge of the offence alleged against them. They had no means of support, but managed to eke out an existence by converting a barn into a theatre, and giving performances that hardly rose to the dignity of the name of plays. "An agent of the police had driven up to their doors and told them to get ready to start for Archangel in three hours. That was all; in three hours they were on their way to exile. "The same writer said there was also at Archangel a lady of middle age who had been banished from St. Petersburg on the mere suspicion that she had been concerned in advising some of the students at the university to send an appeal to the Emperor for certain reforms which they desired. There was no other charge against her, and those who made her acquaintance at Archangel were impressed with her entire innocence, as she did not possess in any way the qualities necessary for intrigue. Like the actor and actress just mentioned, she had had no trial, and no opportunity to be heard in defence. "A young novelist named Gierst published some stories which evidently gave offence. He was called upon at midnight, and told to get ready to depart immediately. Away he went, not knowing whither, until the horses stopped at the town of Totma, six hundred miles from St. Petersburg. There he was told to stay until fresh orders came from the Ministry of Police. None of his friends knew where he had gone; his lodgings were empty, and all the information that could be obtained was from a servant who had seen him start. His letters were seized, the newspapers were forbidden to say anything about him, and it was only by a ruse that he was able to let his friends know where he was. "Any number of these incidents are narrated," the Doctor continued, "and they all show the dangerous power that is in the hands of the police. It is said that it would have been curtailed years ago but for the rise and spread of Nihilism, which has rendered it necessary to continue the privilege of the police to revise sentences, or imprison and exile without trial, 'for administrative purposes.' Let us hope that the better day will come very soon." "I join heartily in that hope," said Frank. Fred echoed the words of his cousin, and they rose and continued their promenade. [Illustration: RUSSIAN GRAND-DUKE AND GRAND-DUCHESS.] CHAPTER X. WINTER IN RUSSIA.--FASHIONABLE AND OTHER FURS.--SLEIGHS AND SLEDGES.--NO SLEIGH-BELLS IN RUSSIAN CITIES.--OFFICIAL OPENING OF THE NEVA.--RUSSIAN ICE-HILLS.--"BUTTER-WEEK."--KISSING AT EASTER.--AN ACTIVE KISSING-TIME.--RUSSIAN STOVES AND BATHS.--EFFECTS OF SEVERE COLD.--THE STORY OF THE FROZEN NOSE.--HOW MEN ARE FROZEN TO DEATH. While greatly enjoying their summer visit to St. Petersburg, Frank and Fred regretted that they did not have the opportunity of seeing the capital in winter. They heard much about the gayety of the winter season, and wondered if their journeyings would ever bring them there at the time when the snow covered the ground and the Neva was sealed with ice. For their consolation Doctor Bronson told them of his winter experience of the city. His story was about as follows: "I arrived here in the latter part of January, when the temperature was running very low. The ordinary mercury thermometer, which freezes at 39° below zero, was of no use, as the mercury would be frozen solid almost every day. Spirit thermometers are the only practicable ones for northern Russia, and during my stay here they marked -53° Fahrenheit. This is an unusual and extreme figure, the mean winter temperature being about 18° above zero. The average summer temperature is 62°, and the extreme summer figure 99°. "Everybody wears furs or sheepskins in winter; they are donned when the frosts come, and not laid aside till the trees are budding. Furs are for the rich, or those who pretend to be so, and sheepskins for the lower classes. Both kinds of garments are worn with the fur or wool inside; the fur coat or cloak has a backing of cloth, while the sheepskin coat has only the skin of the animal without any cloth addition." One of the boys asked what kinds of furs were most in use. "Nearly everything that bears the name of fur," was the reply; "but fashion rules here as everywhere else, and it often happens that a fur will be in great demand at one time and quite neglected a few years later. Sable is the most expensive fur, and a coat or cloak lined with it is worth all the way from five hundred to five thousand dollars, depending upon the excellence of the skins. Another fur, that of the black fox, is still more costly; but as it is worn only by the Imperial family and the highest nobility, it does not come into our category. [Illustration: FUR-BEARING SEALS.] "Coats lined with astrachan (the soft wool of very young lambs) are fashionable, and bring high prices. I have known of coats of this kind selling for six or eight hundred dollars each. I took to America a cap of astrachan wool; it cost me about three dollars, and with my inexperienced eye I could not distinguish it from one that sold for ten times as much. My Russian friends could readily detect the difference; but as I was buying the cap for American and not for Russian use, I was quite content with my purchase." "Why is this fur or wool called 'astrachan?'" one of the youths asked. [Illustration: SEA-OTTER.] "It comes here from Astrachan, at the mouth of the Volga," said the Doctor. "Its preparation is one of the industries of Central Asia, for which Astrachan is the great market. This fur is black, and remarkably soft and silky. The lamb is killed immediately after he sees the light, and the younger he is at the time of his death the finer and more valuable is the skin. Persia supplies large quantities of this fur, and it varies from black to gray or white. [Illustration: THE BEAVER.] "I mentioned the black fox as a very costly fur. The Emperor has a cloak which is valued at ten thousand dollars; only an emperor or some one else with plenty of money at his command could afford such a garment. The fur of the black fox is rarely seen outside of Russia, as only a small quantity of it comes to market. Plenty of counterfeit fur of this kind can be found in England; it is made by dyeing the skin of the common fox, and the work is done so skilfully as to defy detection by any one not an expert in the fur trade. [Illustration: THE ERMINE.] "Sea-otter, mink, marten, beaver, fur-seal, lynx, and raccoon are the furs in general use for lining garments in Russia. Otter, seal, and mink furs are expensive, and so is that of another animal I had almost omitted from the list, the ermine. Ermine fur was formerly the badge of royalty, and in some countries it could be worn only by the members of the Royal or Imperial family, or by the judges in the high courts. In England you often hear the judges spoken of as 'wearers of the ermine;' the fur has been used for lining the robes of the judges, its snowy whiteness being considered an emblem of purity. The tip of the tail of the ermine is black, and in making robes the white surface is dotted at regular intervals with the black tips. Where they are not sufficient for the purpose, the paws of the Astrachan lamb are used instead. [Illustration: THE RACCOON.] "The fur you see most frequently in Russia in the winter season is that of the raccoon. I bought a coat lined with this fur when I arrived in St. Petersburg, and paid the equivalent of eighty dollars for it. I did not recognize the skin as that of a compatriot, and was only aware of its origin when informed by a Russian friend. A fur-dealer in New York afterwards told me that half a million raccoon-skins are sent annually to London, and nearly all of them find their way to Russia. "Another animal whose fur comes from America to Russia is that odoriferous creature, the skunk. A friend of mine bought a coat of this kind under the impression that the fur grew on the back of a young bear. In cold weather, and out-of-doors, it was all right, and no one could have known the difference; but when the weather grew warm, and a thaw made the atmosphere moist, my friend's coat was not a pleasant article of wear. I believe he sold it to the manager of a glue factory, whose nose had lost its sensitiveness through his peculiar occupation. "So much for the materials, and now for the garment. A Russian _shooba_, or cloak, extends from the head to the heels of the wearer; the sleeves cover the finger-tips, or very nearly so, and the collar, when turned up, will completely encircle and conceal the head. The head-covering is a cap of the pattern you see often in pictures, and once called in America the 'pork-pie.' The coat is excellent for riding purposes. One can walk a short distance in such a garment, but it is really inconvenient for a promenade. "But as everybody who can afford to ride does so, the awkwardness of the _shooba_ is of little consequence. The streets abound in sledges, and you may be whisked here, there, and everywhere at a very rapid rate for a reasonable price. The streets are far gayer in winter than in summer, for the reason that there are so many more vehicles in motion, and I know of no more active spectacle than the Nevski on a clear day in January." "The bells on the sleighs must make a merry tinkling," said one of the boys, with a smile. "Quite wrong," said the Doctor, returning the smile, "as there are no bells at all." "No bells on the sleighs!" was the surprised reply. "Then the law is not like ours in America?" "Exactly the reverse," answered the Doctor. "In the United States we require them, and in Russia they forbid them. We argue that unless bells are worn on the horses the approach of a sleigh could not be perceived; the Russians argue that in the confusion caused by the sound of bells one could not hear the warning shout of the driver, and would be liable to be run over. Both are right; sleighs are not sufficiently numerous with us to cause confusion, while in Russia their great numbers would certainly bring about the result the Russians dread. "But it is in the cities and towns only," the Doctor continued, "that the bell is forbidden. On the country roads any one travelling in a post-carriage carries bells on the _duga_--the yoke above the neck of the shaft-horse--but he must remove them before entering a town. Most of these bells are made at Valdai, a town on the road from St. Petersburg to Moscow, and the place of their origin is preserved in some of the sleighing songs of the country. "Balls, parties, receptions, dances, dinners, theatricals, operas, anything and everything belonging to fashionable life, can be found in St. Petersburg in winter. Any one with introductions can be as gay as he wishes, and it is a wonder to a quiet and ease-loving man that the Russians can survive this sort of thing year after year. A fashionable Russian rarely gets to bed before two or three o'clock in the morning; it is true he may sleep late, but if he has any official engagements his hours of slumber will be few. A winter in St. Petersburg is a heavy drain on one's vital forces, and also upon the pocket. Living is dear, and it is well said that this city is the most costly capital of Europe, with the possible exception of Madrid. "The Neva freezes near the end of October or early in November, and remains frozen until May. Nobody is allowed to venture on the ice until it has been officially declared that the river is frozen over; and in the spring, when the ice melts, the official declaration is necessary before a single boat can put out from shore, or even be launched. When the river is opened there is an elaborate ceremony, and a part of the performance includes taking a glass of water from the river and presenting it to the Emperor. His Majesty drinks the water and fills the glass with gold coin. It was observed that the size of the glass increased annually, until it assumed the proportions of a respectable flower-vase. The Imperial stomach could not hold so much water at once, and the Imperial purse objected to the price. A compromise was effected by fixing a certain sum to be paid, instead of filling the glass with gold. "Skating and riding on the ice have a prominent place in the amusements of Russia in winter. Coasting on artificial ice-hills is also a standard sport, in which all classes of people take part. It is especially in order during 'Butter-week' and the Easter festivities, and is one of the winter sights of all cities in the Empire." "How do they make these ice-hills?" Fred asked. [Illustration: RUSSIAN ICE-HILLS.] "A scaffold is raised to the height of thirty or forty feet, the posts being set in holes drilled in the frozen earth or pavement, and fixed in their places by pouring water around them. In a few minutes the water is converted into ice and the post is immovable. On one side of the scaffold there are steps for ascending it, and generally there is a track at the side for drawing up the sleds. The other side slopes off very steeply at the start; then it becomes more gentle, and finally extends a considerable distance on a level. "Blocks of ice are laid on the slope; water is poured over them to be converted into ice and make a smooth surface; and when the slide is completed and opened it is thronged by patrons. It takes away one's breath at first when he is pitched over the edge of the slope and finds himself rushing with a speed surpassing that of a railway-train. The impetus gained in the first part of the descent is sufficient to carry the sled a long distance on the level. I tried the slide two or three times, and think if I had been ten or twenty years younger I should have enjoyed it very much." "Where do they put up these ice-hills?" Frank inquired. "Several are erected in Admiralty Square," said the Doctor, "and others in various other squares and along the bank of the river. They are frequently arranged so that the level part of the slide is over the ice of the Neva, and care is taken that the track shall be smooth as glass. There are usually two of these hills side by side, the slides being in opposite directions. "Those I speak of are for the general public. Smaller slides are in the court-yards of private houses, and there are imitations of them in many summer-houses, where polished wood takes the place of ice. One of the slides in the Imperial palace is of mahogany, which has been polished till it shines like a finely finished bureau or wardrobe. [Illustration: SOLDIERS OFF DUTY--BUTTER-WEEK.] "The time to see St. Petersburg in all its winter glory is during '_Maslinitza_,' or 'Butter-week,' which ushers in the 'Great Fast' preceding Easter. The whole population is engaged in enjoying itself. _Blinni_, or pancakes, are the favorite articles of food, and thousands of digestions are upset by the enormous quantities of these things that are devoured. They are made of flour and butter, fried in butter, and eaten with butter-sauce. Butter and other fatty foods are in order through the week; and from a sanitary point of view this great consumption of grease, followed by seven weeks of fasting, leads to frightful results. Statistics show that the mortality rate is largely increased at this time of the year, and certainly it is not to be wondered at. Rich and poor alike give themselves up to butter, and the only difference is that the rich have the best qualities of the article, and sometimes a greater quantity. "The rich people sometimes have _blinni_ parties during the festive season. I once attended one of these affairs at the invitation of a Russian friend. When we met in the parlors I was surprised that so few were present, as I had dined there before and knew he could accommodate twice the number. But I saw the reason when the word was given that the pancakes were ready and our host led the way. "We were not taken to the dining-room but to the kitchen, and then it was explained that _blinni_ parties are given in the kitchen, and no more people are invited than the place can accommodate. The _blinni_ are eaten on the spot, as fast as they are cooked, and it is a prime object to have them hot from the griddle. We had a very jolly time there, but for several days my stomach was like an embryo Vesuvius in consequence of making a whole meal of this rich food. Think of an entire dinner of buckwheat-cakes or fried 'turnovers,' the stuff that dreams are made of." [Illustration: THE EASTER KISS--AGREEABLE.] One of the boys wished to know about the Easter kissing for which Russia is famous. [Illustration: THE EASTER KISS--IN THE FAMILY.] "Well, it is one of the sights of Russia, with agreeable and disagreeable features. It is not literally the case that everybody kisses everybody else, but that statement is not so very far out of the way after all. I passed through one Easter, and it was quite enough for a lifetime. I was kissed by men and women almost innumerable. If the kissing could have been confined to the young and pretty women, or even to the comely ones of middle or advanced life, I should have borne the infliction patiently; but when I was obliged to receive the salutation from men, of all ages and all conditions of cleanliness, or its reverse, it was too much for comfort. All Russia kisses all the rest of Russia at Easter, and any foreigner who may be here at the time is treated like a subject of the Czar. The old adage that 'Kissing goes by favor' is entirely set aside; custom makes it well-nigh universal." [Illustration: THE EASTER KISS--DIFFICULT.] "When does the ceremony begin, and how long is it kept up?" said one of the youths. [Illustration: THE EASTER KISS--DISAGREEABLE.] "It begins at midnight, as the clock sounds the hour of twelve and ushers in the Easter day. A little before midnight the whole of Russia goes to church. The Emperor and all his family assemble in the Imperial chapel, and every church and chapel in the Empire is filled. As the clock begins striking the hour the whole congregation is wrapped in silence; at the last stroke of the bell the doors of the sanctuary of the church are thrown open and the waiting priests come forth. "'_Christus voskress_' ('Christ is risen') is intoned by the priests, and the song is taken up by the choir, to be followed by the response, '_Christus voskress ihs mortvui_' ('Christ is risen from the dead'). The priests walk through the congregation repeating the words and swinging their censers. "The beginning of the chant is the signal for the kissing. Friends and acquaintances are generally standing together, and each kisses every other one of the group. Those who have the slightest possible acquaintance kiss each other, and at each and every kiss the two phrases I have given are repeated. At the same instant that the signal is given by the opening of the doors of the sanctuary, the churches are illuminated both inside and out, every bell is rung, and the pealing of cannon and the flashing of rockets show how much the festival is a national one. "The kissing is continued through the night and all the next day, and even for several days all relatives, friends, and acquaintances salute each other with _Chritus voskress_ and a kiss; every isvoshchik, porter, dustman--in fact every peasant of every name and kind kisses every other peasant he has ever known, and a great many whom he never saw before. Clerks in the public offices kiss each other, officers and soldiers of the army salute in the same way, the general kissing all his subordinate officers, the colonel of a regiment kissing all the officers beneath him, and also a deputation of the soldiers, while the captain and lieutenants kiss all the soldiers of their companies. The same order is observed in the navy and in all the official ranks, and the number of osculations in the Empire in that one day of the year is quite beyond the power of calculation." "Are the Emperor and Empress subject to the same rule as other people?" was the very natural inquiry which followed. [Illustration: THE EMPEROR'S EASTER KISS.] "Certainly," was the reply; "the ceremony is closely connected with the religion of the country, and as the Emperor is the head of the Church, he could not possibly secure exemption from this ancient custom. The Emperor and Empress must salute all the members of the Imperial family as a matter of course, and also all the court officials and attendants; and after this ceremony is over the Empress must give her hand to be kissed by every officer above the rank of colonel who has the right of attendance at court. The Emperor kisses all his officers on parade, and also a delegation of soldiers selected as representatives of the army. The military parades for the Imperial kiss last several days, as it would be impossible to go through the ceremonial with all the regiments around St. Petersburg in a single revolution of the earth. "Easter makes an end of the long fast of seven weeks, which has been kept by all faithful members of the Church with great rigor. The lower classes refrain even from fish during the first and last weeks of the fast, and also on Wednesdays and Fridays of the other five. It is no wonder that they precede it with the festivities of 'Butter-week,' so that the recollection of the good time they have had will be a consolation during the fast. With the kissing of Easter begins a period of feasting, both in eating and drinking, which is by no means famous for its moderation. Many of the mujiks are sadly intoxicated before the setting of the sun at Easter, and they are by no means the only persons who exhibit the effects of too liberal potations." From Easter and its kisses the conversation wandered to other subjects. Fred asked how the houses were kept warm in the intense cold of a Russian winter. [Illustration: PEASANT GIRL IN WINTER DRESS.] "Some of the more modern buildings of St. Petersburg and Moscow," said the Doctor, "are warmed by furnaces not unlike those used in America. But the true _peitchka_, or Russian stove, is of brick, and is generally built so as to form the common centre of three or four rooms and warm them all at once. In the huts of the peasants the top of the stove is utilized as a bed, and it is usually large enough for three or four persons to lie there with comparative comfort." "Do they keep the fire going there all the time during the winter?" "Not exactly," was the reply, "though in a certain sense they do. Every morning the fire is kindled in the stove, which resembles an enormous oven, and is kept burning for several hours. When it has burned down to a bed of coals, so that no more carbonic gas can be evolved, the chimney is closed, and port-holes near the top of the stove are opened into the room or rooms. The hot air comes out and warms the apartments, and there is enough of it to keep a good heat for twelve or fifteen hours. "The port-holes must be carefully closed during the combustion of the wood, in order to prevent the escape of poisonous gas. Sometimes they are opened when there is still some flame burning. A Russian will instantly detect the presence of this gas, and open a window or rush into the open air, but strangers, in their ignorance, are occasionally overpowered by it. "Several instances are on record of strangers losing their lives by _ougar_, as the Russians call this poisonous gas from the stove. Among them, some twenty years ago, was the son of a Persian ambassador, who was smothered in one of the principal hotels of Moscow. When a person is overpowered by _ougar_, and found insensible, he is carried out-of-doors and rolled in the snow--a severe but efficacious remedy. "Then, too, the cold is excluded by means of double or triple windows, little cones of paper filled with salt being placed between the windows to absorb whatever moisture collects there. Russian houses are very poorly ventilated, and frequently, on entering from the open air, you are almost stifled by the foul atmosphere that seems to strike you in the face like a pugilist. "It is probably the condition of the air in which they live, combined with late hours and the exactions of fashionable life, that gives such an aspect of paleness to nearly all the Russian women above the peasant class. A fresh, ruddy complexion, such as one sees almost universally throughout England, and quite generally in America, is almost unknown among Russian ladies. If the Emperor would issue a decree requiring the houses of the Empire to be properly ventilated, he would confer a blessing on his faithful subjects, and save or prolong thousands of lives. "The peasants sometimes use their stoves for baths," said the Doctor, to the great surprise of his youthful auditors. "How is that possible?" one of them asked. "Do they fill the stove with water the same as they would a bath-tub?" "Not exactly," the Doctor answered, smilingly. "You know the character of the Russian bath as we find it in New York and other American cities?" "Certainly," was the reply. "It is a room filled with steam, and with a series of benches on which you lie and are heated, the highest bench being hottest of all." [Illustration: A BATH IN THE EAST.] "The Russian bath of the best class here," said Doctor Bronson, "is arranged in the same way. The more primitive bath is simply a room with benches, and a fire on a pile of hot stones. Water is thrown over the stones and converted into steam, and the finishing touch is to mount to the topmost bench while an attendant deluges the stones with water and raises a cloud that threatens to scald you. The most profuse perspiration is the result, and the bath is no doubt a great sanitary institution. The Turkish bath is much like the Russian, hot, dry air taking the place of steam. "Taken properly, the Russian bath has no bad effects, and is beneficial in rheumatism, gout, certain forms of neuralgia, and several other diseases. It is a wonderful restorative when you have been shaken up in carriages on Russian roads, and an excellent thing after a journey of any kind. Every good Russian considers it his duty to bathe once a week, but he does not always adhere to the rule. "In every village there is a bath-house which is the general property of the villagers, and maintained by popular contribution. When a peasant has no bath-house he creeps into his stove, bakes himself on the hot ashes, and after perspiring freely crawls out and is drenched with water. Nearly every private house has its bath, which is generally in a small building in the yard, rather than in the dwelling-house. In all the large cities there are numerous bathing establishments, some of them fitted up in gorgeous style, while others are of the plainest and cheapest sort. The Russians are quite gregarious in their bathing habits, and think no more of taking a bath in the presence of each other than of dining in a restaurant." "Is it true that the Russians finish a bath by having iced water poured over them, or by taking a plunge into it?" "It is the custom to close the pores of the skin by means of cold, but not ice-cold water. The attendant begins the work of the bath by throwing water over you, first warm, then hot, then hotter, and then hottest. This drenching is followed by the steaming process and a gentle flogging with birchen rods or switches to stimulate perspiration. Then you are soaped and scrubbed, the scrubbing being performed usually with birchen shavings, which are thoroughly and vigorously applied. "After this you are again drenched with buckets of water, beginning with warm and going on a descending scale to cold, so that there shall be no shock to the system. Men have rushed from the bath into a snow-bank, but this is not the custom; the peasants frequently leave the bath to take a swim in the river, but only in mild weather. No doubt there have been cases of bathing voluntarily through the ice or in iced water, but you must search far and wide to find them." Frank remarked that he thought one should exercise great care in going into the open air in winter after taking a bath. Doctor Bronson explained that this was the reason of the drenching with cold water, so that the pores of the skin would be closed and the chances of taking cold greatly reduced. "It is quite a shock to the system," said the Doctor, "to pass from in doors to out, or from out doors to in, during the Russian winter. The houses are generally heated to about 70° Fahrenheit; with the thermometer at zero, or possibly ten, twenty, or more degrees below, it is like stepping from a furnace to a refrigerator, or _vice versa_. But the natives do not seem to mind it. I have often seen a mujik rise from his couch on the top of the stove, and after tightening his belt and putting on his boots and cap, mount the box of a sleigh and drive for two or three hours in a temperature far below zero." "I have read somewhere," said Fred, "about the danger of losing one's ears and nose by frost, and that it is the custom in St. Petersburg and Moscow to warn any one that he is being frozen. Did you ever see a case of the kind?" [Illustration: RUSSIAN STREET SCENE IN WINTER.] "It is a strange circumstance," replied the Doctor, "that nearly every tourist who has been in Russia, even for only a week or so, claims to have seen a crowd running after a man or woman, calling out '_Noss! noss!_' and when the victim did not understand, seizing him or her and rubbing the nose violently with snow. "One writer tells it as occurring to a French actress; another, to an English ambassador; another, to an American politician; and in each case the story is varied to give it a semblance of truth. I was in Moscow and St. Petersburg during January and February; and though constantly watching to see somebody's nose pulled, was doomed to disappointment. I asked my Russian friends about it, and none of them was wiser than I. One said it might happen once in a great while, but it was safe to conclude that everybody knew enough to take care of his own nose." Frank asked how one could tell when his nose was freezing, or how observe the freezing of another's. "The nose and ears become numb and turn white," was the reply, "and that indicates the beginning of the freezing. When this is the condition nothing but a vigorous rubbing to restore the circulation will prevent the loss of those organs. It is for protection from the frost that the Russians keep their faces wrapped in furs; and if a man has any doubt about the condition of his facial attachments he will touch them occasionally to make sure. When you pinch your nose and do not feel the pinch, it is time to rub with snow, promptly and with energy. "Severe cold is very inconvenient for the wearer of a mustache, as he speedily gathers a great quantity of ice there by the congelation of the moisture of his breath. A man's beard becomes a frozen mass in a little while. Beard and furs frequently freeze together, and render a sudden turn of the head a matter of great annoyance. Ladies find their veils stiffening into something like wire gauze when the thermometer runs low. They disdain the bonnet of London or Paris, and sensibly enclose their head in hoods lined with fur, and having capes descending well into the neck. "Horses become white in a short time, no matter what may be their real color, from the formation of frost all over their bodies. Their breath suggests steam more than anything else, and the long hairs around their noses are turned into icy spikes. In the severest weather pigeons have been seen to fall to the ground paralyzed with the cold, but it is quite likely that their flights were forced, and the birds were half frozen before taking wing." Frank asked if it often happened that people were frozen to death in these Russian winters. "Occurrences of this kind probably take place every year," was the reply, "but from all I have been able to learn I believe the number is exaggerated. In many cases it is the fault of the frozen ones themselves; they have been rendered insensible or careless by stimulants, and gone to sleep in the open air. The tendency to sleep when one is exposed to severe cold should be resisted, as it is very likely to be the sleep of death. [Illustration: LOST IN A SNOW-STORM.] "There is a story of two travellers who saw a third in trouble; one of them proposed to go to the relief of the man in distress, but the other refused, saying he would not stir out of their sleigh. The first went and relieved the sufferer; his exertions set the blood rushing through his veins and saved him from injury by the cold, while the one who refused to render aid was frozen to death. "It is a curious fact," said the Doctor, in closing his remarks upon the Russian winter, "that foreigners coming here do not feel the cold at first. They walk the streets in the same clothing they would wear in London or Paris, and laugh at the Russians wrapping themselves in furs. At the same time the Russians laugh at them and predict that if they stay in the country for another season they will change their ways. A stranger does not feel the cold the first winter as sensibly as do the Russians, but in every succeeding season of frost he is fully sensitive to it, and vies with the natives in constant use of his furs." CHAPTER XI. LEAVING ST. PETERSBURG.--NOVGOROD THE GREAT: ITS HISTORY AND TRADITIONS.--RURIK AND HIS SUCCESSORS.--BARBARITIES OF JOHN THE TERRIBLE.--EARLY HISTORY OF RUSSIA.--AN IMPERIAL BEAR-HUNT.--ORIGIN OF THE HOUSE OF ROMANOFF.--"A LIFE FOR THE CZAR."--RAILWAYS IN RUSSIA FROM NOVGOROD TO MOSCOW. A day was appointed for leaving St. Petersburg. Notice was given at the office of the hotel, and the passports of the three travellers received the necessary indorsements at the Police Bureau. Trunks were packed and bills settled, and at the proper time a carriage conveyed the party to the commodious station of the Imperial Railway from the new capital of Russia to the old. But they did not take their tickets direct for Moscow. As before stated, the railway between the two great cities of the Czar's dominions is very nearly a straight line, and was laid out by the Emperor Nicholas with a ruler placed on the map and a pencil drawn along its edge. There is consequently no city of importance along the route, with the exception of Tver, where the line crosses the Volga. Novgorod, the oldest city of Russia, is about forty miles from the railway as originally laid out. Until within a few years it was reached by steamers in summer from Volkhova Station, seventy-five miles from St. Petersburg. In winter travellers were carried in sledges from Chudova Station (near Volkhova), and to novices in this kind of travel the ride was interesting. Latterly a branch line has been completed to Novgorod, and one may leave St. Petersburg at 9 A.M. and reach Novgorod at 6 P.M. The pace of the trains is not dangerously fast, and accidents are of rare occurrence. Between Moscow and St. Petersburg (four hundred and three miles) the running time for express trains is twenty hours, and for way trains twenty-three to twenty-five hours. Nine hours from St. Petersburg to Novgorod (one hundred and twenty miles) should not startle the most timorous tourist. Doctor Bronson had told the youths some days before their departure that they would visit Novgorod on their way to Moscow. He suggested that he desired them to be informed about its history, and soon after the train started he referred to the subject. [Illustration: WORKMEN OF NOVGOROD--GLAZIER, PAINTER, AND CARPENTERS.] "It is rather an odd circumstance," said Frank, "that the oldest city in Russia is called Novgorod, or 'New City.' _Novo_ means 'new,' and _Gorod_ is Russian for 'city.' It received its name when it was really the newest town in Russia, and has kept it ever since." "It is also called Novgorod Veliki," said Fred, "which means Novgorod the Great. In the fifteenth century it had a population of four hundred thousand, and was really entitled to be called the great. At present it has less than twenty thousand inhabitants, and its industries are of little importance compared to what they used to be. "It has a trade in flax, corn, and hemp," the youth continued, "and its manufactures are principally in tobacco, leather, sail-cloth, vinegar, and candles. In former times an important fair was held here, and merchants came to Novgorod from all parts of Europe and many countries of Asia. Afterwards the fair was removed to Nijni Novgorod, on the Volga, and the ancient city became of little consequence except for its historical interest." "The Slavs founded a town there in the fourth century," said Frank. "About the year 862 the Russian monarchy had its beginning at Novgorod; in 1862 there was a millennial celebration there, and a magnificent monument was erected to commemorate it." "This is a good place for you to tell us about the early history of Russia," said the Doctor. [Illustration: AN OLD NORSE CHIEF.] "I have been studying it," Frank replied, "and find that previous to the ninth century the country was occupied by the Slavs, who founded the towns of Novgorod and Kief. Each of these places was the capital of an independent Slavic principality. Very little is known of the history of the Slavs in those times. The Varangians, a northern people, made war upon them. The Slavs resisted, but finally invited Rurik, the Prince of the Varangians, to come and rule over them. The Northmen, or Varangians, were called 'Russ' by the Slavs, and from them the new monarchy was called Russia. Rurik came with his two brothers, Sineus and Truvor, and at Novgorod laid the foundation of this empire that now covers one-eighth of the land surface of the globe. "The story is admirably told in verse by Bayard Taylor. I have copied the lines from his poetical volume, and will read them to you." In a full, clear voice the youth then read as follows, having previously explained that Mr. Taylor was present at the millennial celebration already mentioned: A THOUSAND YEARS. _Novgorod, Russia, Sept_. 20, 1862. "'A thousand years! Through storm and fire, With varying fate, the work has grown, Till Alexander crowns the spire, Where Rurik laid the corner-stone. "'The chieftain's sword, that could not rust, But bright in constant battle grew, Raised to the world a throne august-- A nation grander than he knew. "'Nor he, alone; but those who have, Through faith or deed, an equal part: The subtle brain of Yaroslav, Vladimir's arm and Nikon's heart; "'The later hands, that built so well The work sublime which these began, And up from base to pinnacle Wrought out the Empire's mighty plan. "'All these, to-day, are crowned anew, And rule in splendor where they trod, While Russia's children throng to view Her holy cradle, Novgorod. "'From Volga's banks; from Dwina's side; From pine-clad Ural, dark and long; Or where the foaming Terek's tide Leaps down from Kasbek, bright with song; "'From Altai's chain of mountain-cones; Mongolian deserts, far and free; And lands that bind, through changing zones, The Eastern and the Western sea! "'To every race she gives a home, And creeds and laws enjoy her shade, Till, far beyond the dreams of Rome, Her Cæsar's mandate is obeyed. "'She blends the virtues they impart, And holds, within her life combined, The patient faith of Asia's heart-- The force of Europe's restless mind. "'She bids the nomad's wanderings cease; She binds the wild marauder fast; Her ploughshares turn to homes of peace The battle-fields of ages past. "'And, nobler yet, she dares to know Her future's task, nor knows in vain, But strikes at once the generous blow That makes her millions men again! "'So, firmer based, her power expands, Nor yet has seen its crowning hour-- Still teaching to the struggling lands That Peace the offspring is of Power. "'Build, then, the storied bronze, to tell The steps whereby this height she trod-- The thousand years that chronicle The toil of Man, the help of God! "'And may the thousand years to come-- The future ages, wise and free-- Still see her flag and hear her drum Across the world, from sea to sea!-- "'Still find, a symbol stern and grand, Her ancient eagle's wings unshorn; One head to watch the Western land, And one to guard the land of morn.' "Bear in mind," said Frank, after pausing at the end of the lines, "that the millennial celebration took place not long after the edict of emancipation was issued by Alexander II. This is what Mr. Taylor refers to in the third line of his poem. "To go on with the story, let me say that Rurik and his descendants ruled the country for more than two centuries. They made war upon their neighbors, and were generally victorious, and in their time the boundaries of Russia were very much enlarged. Rurik and his sons were pagans. In the tenth century Christianity was introduced, and Olga, the widow of Igor, son of Rurik, was baptized at Constantinople. Her son remained a pagan. He was slain in battle, and left the monarchy to his three sons, who soon began to quarrel. One was killed in battle, and another was put to death by the third brother, Vladimir, who assumed entire control, and was surnamed 'The Great' on account of the benefits he conferred upon Russia." Fred asked if Vladimir was a Christian. "He was not," said Frank, "at least not in the beginning, but he subsequently became a convert to the principles of the Greek Church, married the sister of the Emperor of Constantinople, and was baptized on the day of his wedding, in the year 988. He ordered the introduction of Christianity into Russia, and established a great many churches and schools. [Illustration: VIEW ON THE STEPPE.] "Vladimir left the throne to his twelve sons, who quarrelled about it till several of them were murdered or slain in battle. The successful son was Yaroslav, who followed the example of his father by extending the boundaries of the country and introducing reforms. He caused many Greek books to be translated into Slavic, and ordered the compilation of the '_Russkaya Pravda_,' which was the first law code of the country. Nikon, whom Mr. Taylor mentions in the same line with Vladimir, was a Russian scholar and theologian of a later time, to whom the religion of Russia is much indebted. "After Yaroslav's death there were many internal and external wars, during which Russia lost a great deal of territory, and the history of the country for a long period is a history of calamities. The Tartars under Genghis Khan invaded Russia, plundering towns and cities, murdering the inhabitants, and ravaging the whole country from the frontiers of Asia to the banks of the Vistula. Famine and pestilence accompanied war; in the year 1230 thirty thousand people died of the plague at Smolensk and forty-two thousand at Novgorod. Alexander Nevski defeated the Swedes and Livonians on the banks of the Neva. He was a prince of Novgorod, and one of the most enlightened of his time. [Illustration: IVAN THE TERRIBLE.] "Moscow was founded about 1147, and grew rapidly, although it was repeatedly sacked by the Mongol invaders, who slew on one occasion twenty-four thousand of its inhabitants. The capital was established there, and under various rulers the war with the Mongols was continued to a successful end. Ivan III., surnamed 'The Great,' drove them out, and successfully repelled their attempts to return. His son and successor, Ivan IV., was surnamed 'The Terrible,' and certainly he deserved the appellation. We have mentioned him already in our account of what we saw in St. Petersburg. "He was an energetic warrior, encouraged commerce, made treaties with other nations, introduced the art of printing, and invited many foreigners to reside in Russia and give instruction to the people. On the other hand, he was one of the most cruel rulers that ever governed a people, and seems to have rivalled the brutalities of the Mongols. Here are some of his cruelties that are recorded in history: "He hated Novgorod on account of the independent spirit of its people, and for this reason he put more than sixty thousand of its inhabitants to death, many of them with torture. Novgorod had maintained an independent government, quite distinct from that of the Grand-duchy of Moscow. Ivan III. and his son, Vassili, made war upon Novgorod and the other independent principality of Pskov, and Ivan IV. ('The Terrible') brought them to complete submission. The slaughter of the people of Novgorod was the closing act of the conquest. "We will change Ivan to its English equivalent, John, and henceforth speak of this monster as John the Terrible. He was only four years old when he became Czar. During his infancy the government was conducted by his mother, under the direction of the House of Boyards (noblemen). When he was thirteen years of age a political party which was opposed to the Boyards suggested that he could rule without any assistance, and he at once took the control of affairs. Very soon he terrified those who had placed him on the throne, and they would have been gladly rid of him if they could. "An English ambassador came to Moscow bringing the answer to a letter in which John had proposed marriage to Queen Elizabeth. The Queen rejected his offer, but in such a diplomatic manner as not to offend the sanguinary Czar. Her ambassador incurred the monarch's ill-will by neglecting to uncover before him, and it was accordingly ordered that the envoy's hat should be nailed to his head. Foreigners were better treated than were the subjects of John, and the ambassador was not harmed, though he was afterwards imprisoned. "For his amusement John the Terrible used to order a number of people to be sewed up in bear-skins, and then torn to death by bear-hounds. For tearing prisoners to pieces he ordered the tops of several trees to be bent down so that they came together; the limbs of the unfortunate victim were fastened to these tops, each limb to a different tree. When they were thus tied up, the release of the trees performed the work intended by the cruel Czar." "Isn't John's name connected with the Church of St. Basil at Moscow?" Fred asked. "Yes," answered Frank; "it was built in his reign, and is considered one of the finest in the city. When it was finished John sent for the architect and asked if he could build another like it. "'Certainly I could,' the architect replied, with delight. "Thereupon the monarch ordered the architect's eyes to be put out, to make sure that the Church of St. Basil should have no rival. "Whether he was a kind husband or not we have no information, but he certainly was very much a husband. He had one Mohammedan and two Russian wives; and at the very time he sought the hand of Elizabeth, Queen of England, he proposed to marry the daughter of King Sigismund of Poland. What he intended doing if both offers were accepted we are not told, but it is not likely that bigamy would have had any terrors for a man of such ungovernable temper as he seems to have been. [Illustration: ALEXIS MICHAILOVITCH, FATHER OF PETER THE GREAT.] "At his death his son and successor, Feodor, fell under the influence of Boris Godounoff, his brother-in-law, who assumed full power after a time, and renewed the relations with England which had been suspended for a while. Godounoff obtained the throne by poisoning or exiling several of his relatives who stood in his way or opposed his projects. Feodor is believed to have died of poison; he was the Czar from 1584 to 1598, but for the last ten years of this period he had practically no voice in State affairs. With his death the House of Rurik became extinct." "Does the House of Romanoff, the present rulers of Russia, begin where that of Rurik ended?" the Doctor asked. "Not exactly," was the reply, "as there was an interval of nineteen years, and a very important period in the history of the Empire. Several pretenders to the throne had appeared, among them Demetrius, who is known in history as the 'Impostor.' He married a Polish lady, and it was partly through her intrigues that Moscow fell into the hands of the Poles." "And how were they driven out?" "A butcher or cattle-dealer of Nijni Novgorod, named Minin, gathered a small army under the belief that he was ordered by Heaven to free his country from the invaders. He persuaded Prince Pojarsky to lead these soldiers to Moscow, and together they started. Their force increased as they advanced, and finally they expelled the Poles and redeemed the capital. The names of Minin and Pojarsky are very prominent in Russian history. Monuments at Moscow and Nijni Novgorod commemorate the action of these patriotic men, and tell the story of their work in behalf of their country. [Illustration: MICHAEL FEODOROVITCH, FIRST CZAR OF THE ROMANOFF FAMILY.] "The incident on which Glinka's opera, 'A Life for the Czar,' is based belongs to this period, when the Poles overran Russia. The Czar who was saved was Michael Feodorovitch, the first of the Romanoffs, and he was elected to the throne by an assembly of nobles. The autocrat of all the Russias is descended from a man who was chosen to office by the form of government which is now much more in vogue in America than in the land of the Czar. Michael, the first of the Romanoffs, was the son of Feodor Romanoff, Archbishop of Rostov, and afterwards Patriarch of Moscow. "There was nothing remarkable about the reign of Feodor, nor of that of his son Alexis. The latter was distinguished for being the father of Peter the Great, and for nothing else that I can find in history. Now we step from ancient to modern times. Peter the Great belongs to our day, and the Russia that we are visiting is the one that he developed. Under him the country became an Empire, where it was before nothing more than a kingdom. During his reign--" They were interrupted by the stoppage of the train at a station, and the announcement that they must wait there an hour or more to receive some of the Imperial foresters, who were arranging for a bear-hunt. Russian history was dropped at once for a more practical and modern subject, the Emperor of Russia, and his pursuit of the bear. The Doctor explained to the youths that the Czar is supposed to be fond of the chase, and whenever a bear is seen anywhere near the line of the Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway he is made the object of an Imperial hunt. The animal is driven into a forest and allowed to remain there undisturbed. In fact he is kept in the forest by a cordon of peasants hastily assembled from all the surrounding country. As soon as the party can be organized, the hunt takes place in grand style. The Imperial train is prepared, and an extra train sent out in advance, with the necessary beaters, soldiers, and others, and also a plentiful supply of provisions. The Imperial train contains the Emperor's private carriage and several other fine vehicles. There are carriages for the Emperor's horses, unless they have gone in the advance train, and there are guns and ammunition sufficient to slaughter half the bears in the Empire. When the ground is reached the locality of the bear is pointed out, and the Emperor rides fearlessly to the spot. He is accompanied by his staff and guests, if he happens to have any Royal or Imperial visitors at the time; but unless the guests are invited to do the shooting, the honor of killing the beast is reserved for the Emperor. Exceptions are made in case the bear should endanger the life of his Majesty, which sometimes happens. Bears have little sense of Imperial dignity, and a Czar is of no more consequence to an untamed bruin than is the most ordinary peasant. "A gentleman who was stopping on an estate in the interior of Russia," said Doctor Bronson, "happened to be a witness of an Imperial bear-hunt several years ago, and told me about it. He said not less than five hundred Cossacks and peasants were employed in watching the bear, to keep him from straying, and the brute had become so accustomed to their presence that he stood quite still when approached by the Emperor, so that the latter delivered his shot at a distance of not more than a dozen yards. The animal was killed instantly, the ball penetrating his forehead and crashing through his brain. "After the hunt the party rode to the house of the owner of the estate where the bear had been found, and enjoyed a hearty supper, and after the supper they returned to the capital. The body of the slain animal was dressed for transportation to St. Petersburg, where it was to be served up at the Imperial table. [Illustration: TOO NEAR TO BE PLEASANT.] "I have heard of bears that did not run at the sight of man, but sometimes came altogether too near to be agreeable. One day a man who lay asleep on the ground was awakened by a bear licking his face. He sat up and was much terrified at the situation; the bear finally walked off, and left the man unharmed. [Illustration: WOLF ATTACKING ITS HUNTERS.] "When the Emperor treats his Royal or Imperial guests to a wolf or bear hunt, the masters of ceremonies take good care that there shall be game in the forest. On one occasion, when the Crown-prince of Germany was a guest at the Winter Palace, the Emperor ordered a wolf-hunt for his amusement. The chase was successful, and two of the animals were driven so that they were shot by the guest. "During their return to St. Petersburg, so the story goes, the Prince commented on the wonderful race of wolves in Russia. 'One of those I killed to-day,' said he, 'had the hair rubbed from his neck as if by a chain, and the other wore a collar.'" "Are there many bears in Russia?" one of the youths inquired. "The bear is found all over Russia," the Doctor answered. "The most common varieties are the black and brown bears, which are in Asiatic as well as European Russia; in northern Asia is the Arctic bear, which belongs to the sea rather than to the land. He is the largest of the family, but not the most formidable. The champion bear of the world for fighting qualities is the grisly, found only in North America. "In some parts of Russia," the Doctor continued, "bears are so numerous as to do a great deal of damage. They destroy cattle and sheep, and not unfrequently attack individuals. They cause much havoc among fruit-trees and in grain-fields, and in localities where inhabitants are few they have things pretty much their own way. They are hunted with dogs and guns; traps are set for them, and poison is scattered where they can find and eat it. But in spite of the efforts of man against them they do not diminish in numbers from year to year, and the Emperor is able to have a bear-hunt about as often as he wants one. "I have heard that in some parts of Siberia bears are caught and tamed, and then driven to market as one drives oxen or sheep. In a book of travels written by a Frenchman there is a picture of a dozen or more bears being driven to market, and the story is told in all soberness. French travellers are famous for a tendency to make their narratives interesting, even if veracity should suffer. There are exceptions, of course, as in everything else, but you may set it down as a good general rule, not to accept without question any extraordinary statement you find in a French book of travel." In due time the journey was resumed, and the train reached Novgorod, where our travellers alighted. Novgorod stands on both sides of the Volkhov River, and is one hundred and three miles from St. Petersburg by the old post-road. It is not remarkable for its architecture, and is chiefly interesting for its historical associations and souvenirs. [Illustration: OLD PICTURE IN THE CHURCH.] "We visited several of the churches and monasteries which make up the attractions of Novgorod," said Frank, in his journal. "The principal church is the Cathedral of St. Sophia, which was called in ancient times 'The Heart and Soul of the Great Novgorod.' The first cathedral was built here in 989; the present one dates from about 1045, when it was erected by order of the grandson of St. Vladimir. It has been altered and repaired repeatedly, but the alterations have not materially changed it from its ancient form. It is one of the oldest churches in Russia, and is held in great reverence by the people. "The church has suffered by repeated plunderings. It was robbed by John the Terrible, and afterwards by the Swedes; the latter, in 1611, killed two of the priests and destroyed the charter which had been granted to the cathedral more than fifty years before. In spite of these depredations, the church contains many relics and images, some of them of great antiquity. There are shrines in memory of Yaroslav, Vladimir, and other of the ancient rulers of Russia; the shrine and tomb of St. Anne, daughter of King Olaf of Sweden, and wife of Prince Yaroslav I.; and the shrines or tombs of many other saints, princes, archbishops, patriarchs, and other dignitaries whose names have been connected with the history of the church and the city. So many tombs are here that there is little room for more. [Illustration: A BISHOP OF THE GREEK CHURCH.] "You would hardly expect one of the curious relics of a church to be the result of piracy, yet such appears to be the case in this sacred building. The doors leading into the Chapel of the Nativity are said to have been stolen from a church in Sweden by pirates. Several men from Novgorod belonged to the freebooting band, and brought these doors home to enrich the cathedral of their native place. The doors are of oak, covered with metal plates half an inch thick; the plates bear several devices and scrolls which we could not understand, but our guide said they were the armorial bearings of Swedish noblemen. There is another door, which is also said to have been stolen from a church, but its exact origin is unknown. "In the sacristy they showed us an ancient copy of the four gospels on vellum, and a printed copy which is said to have come from the first printing-press ever set up in Russia. There were several flags and standards which once belonged to the princes of Novgorod, one of them a present from Peter the Great in 1693. There was once an extensive library connected with the cathedral, but it was taken to St. Petersburg in 1859. They showed us a collection of letters from Peter the Great to Catherine I. and his son Alexis, but of course we could not read them. "There is a kremlin, or fortress, in the centre of the city, but it is not of great consequence. Near it is a tower which bears the name of Yaroslav; in this tower hung the _Vechie_ bell, which summoned the _vechie_, or assemblage of citizens, when any public circumstance required their attention. We tried to picture the gathering of the people on such occasions. In the day of its greatness Novgorod had four hundred thousand inhabitants, and its assemblages must have been well worth seeing. The vechie bell was carried off to Moscow by Ivan III., and many thousands of the inhabitants were compelled to move to other places. For a long time it hung in a tower of the Kremlin of Moscow, but its present whereabouts is unknown. "I fear that a further account of our sight-seeing in Novgorod, so far as the churches and monasteries are concerned, might be wearisome, as it would be in some degree a repetition of the description of the cathedral; so we will drop these venerable buildings and come down to modern times and things. The most interesting of modern things in this old city is the Millennial Monument, which has been mentioned before. [Illustration: MILLENNIAL MONUMENT AT NOVGOROD. (From Appleton's American Cyclopædia.)] "The monument is one of the finest in the Empire, and some of the Russians say it surpasses anything else of the kind in their country. We could not measure it, but judged it to be not less than fifty feet from the ground to the top of the cross which surmounts the dome, forming the upper part of the monument. There are a great many figures, statues, and high-reliefs, which represent periods of Russian history. The great events from the days of Rurik to Alexander II. are shown on the monument, and there can be no doubt that the work is highly instructive to those who study it carefully. "The monument was designed by a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, and was chosen from a great number of sketches that were submitted for competition. The casting of the bronze was done by an English firm at St. Petersburg, and the expense was borne by the Government and a few wealthy citizens of Novgorod. As is usual in such cases, the Government contributed by far the greater part of the money." After a day in Novgorod our friends continued their journey to Moscow. They returned to the main line of railway by the branch, and waited nearly two hours at the junction for the through train to the ancient capital. At Valdai the youths bought some specimens of the famous Valdai bells; but it is safe to say that they were not equal to what could have been found at St. Petersburg or Moscow. Fred recalled their purchases of specimens of local manufactures in other parts of the world, and said the same rule would apply everywhere. The tourist who buys Toledo blades at the railway-station in Toledo, eau-de-cologne at the famous city of the Rhine, bog-oak jewellery at Dublin, and _pâté de foie gras_ at Strasburg, may generally count on being victimized. At Tver the railway crosses the Volga. Frank proposed that as Tver is the head of navigation on that great river they should leave the train and float with the current to Astrachan, two thousand one hundred and fifty miles away. Doctor Bronson said a steamer would be preferable to floating; besides, they would have quite enough of the Volga if they started from Nijni Novgorod and avoided the navigation of the upper part of the stream. [Illustration: RUSSIAN BOATS.] "And while we are on the subject of navigation," the Doctor added, "please bear in mind that by means of a system of canals connecting the lakes and rivers between this point and St. Petersburg, there is unbroken water transit between the Volga and the Neva. Merchandise can be carried in boats from St. Petersburg to the Caspian Sea without breaking bulk, and there are canals connecting the Volga with the Don and the Dneiper rivers in the same way. Russia has an excellent system of internal communication by water, and it was doubtless due to this that the railways in the Empire are a matter of very recent date. "The first railway line in the Empire was from St. Petersburg to Tsarskoe-Selo, and was built in 1838. The St. Petersburg and Moscow Railway was begun in 1848, and down to the end of the reign of Nicholas less than three thousand miles of railway were completed in the whole Empire. Now there are nearly twenty thousand miles in operation, and the figures are increasing every year. Nearly fourteen thousand miles belong to private companies, and the remainder is the property of the Government. Some of the companies have a Government guarantee for the interest on their capital, while others are managed just like private railways in other countries." At the last station before reaching Moscow passports were surrendered to the inspectors, and tickets were collected. The youths put their hand-bags and shawl-straps in readiness, and were ready to leave the carriage when the train rolled into the huge building which is the terminal station of the line. Our friends were in the ancient capital of Russia, and the home of many Czars. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF CATHERINE II. IN THE KREMLIN COLLECTION.] CHAPTER XII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF MOSCOW.--UNDULATIONS OF THE GROUND.--IRREGULARITY OF THE BUILDINGS, AND THE CAUSE THEREOF.--NAPOLEON'S CAMPAIGN IN RUSSIA.--DISASTER AND RETREAT.--THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.--THE KREMLIN: ITS CHURCHES, TREASURES, AND HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS.--ANECDOTES OF RUSSIAN LIFE.--THE CHURCH OF ST. BASIL. From the railway-station the party went to a hotel which had been recommended as centrally situated and fairly well kept, but Frank and Fred said they should be cautious about praising it for fear that those who came after them might be disappointed. The hotels of Moscow are hardly equal to those of St. Petersburg. As the latter is the capital of the Empire, it naturally has a greater demand for hostelries of the highest class than does the more venerable but less fashionable city. The first thing that impressed the youths was the undulating character of the ground on which Moscow is built, in pleasing contrast to the dead level of St. Petersburg. The streets are rarely straight for any great distance, and were it not for the inequalities one would not be able to see very far ahead of him at any time. But every few minutes a pretty view is afforded from the crest of one ridge to another; the depressions between the ridges are filled with buildings scattered somewhat irregularly, and there is a goodly number of shade-trees in the yards and gardens or lining the streets. [Illustration: STREET SCENE IN MOSCOW.] St. Petersburg has an air of great regularity both in the arrangement of its streets and the uniformity of the buildings. Moscow forms a marked contrast to the younger capital, as there is little attempt at uniformity and regularity. You see the hut of a peasant side by side with the palace of a nobleman; a stable rises close against a church, and there is a carpenter's shop, with its half-dozen workmen, abutting close against an immense factory where hundreds of hands are employed. Moscow is a city of contrasts; princes and beggars almost jostle each other in the streets; the houses of rich and poor are in juxtaposition, and it is only a few short steps from the palace of the Kremlin, with its treasures of gold and jewels, to the abodes of most abject poverty. Frank and Fred were quick to observe this peculiarity of the ancient capital of the Czars, and at the first opportunity they questioned the Doctor concerning it. "What is the cause of so many contrasts here which we did not see in St. Petersburg?" one of them inquired. "That is the question I asked on my first visit," Doctor Bronson replied. "I was told that it was due to the burning of Moscow in 1812, at the time of its capture by Napoleon." "How much of the city was burned?" Fred asked. "The greater part of it was destroyed," was the reply, "but there were many buildings of stone and brick that escaped. Most of the churches were saved, as the Russians were reluctant to commit the sacrilege of burning edifices which had been consecrated to religious worship. Such of the churches as were consumed in the conflagration were set on fire by neighboring buildings rather than by the hands of the Russians." "Then it was the Russians that burned Moscow, and not the French," said Fred. "I have read somewhere that it is all a falsehood that the Russians consigned their city to the flames." "From all I can learn, both by reading and conversation," answered the Doctor, "I do not think there is any doubt of the truth of the generally accepted story. Napoleon arrived here on the 15th of September, and intended to spend the winter in Moscow to prepare for a spring campaign against St. Petersburg. His advance under Murat came in one day earlier. As soon as Napoleon arrived he took up his quarters in the Kremlin, while his troops were mostly encamped on the hills which overlook the city on the west. [Illustration: BIVOUACKING IN THE SNOW.] "On the night of the 16th the governor, Count Rostoptchin, ordered the city to be set on fire--at least such is the general belief, though the official order has never been produced. The fire broke out in many places at the same time; the French soldiers tried to suppress it, but found it impossible to do so. Nearly twelve thousand houses were burned, besides palaces and churches. The inhabitants fled to the country in all directions, and there was no stock of provisions for the support of the French army. "Napoleon found that he must evacuate the city and return to France. On the 19th of October he looked his last on Moscow from the Sparrow Hills on the west, and began his long and disastrous retreat. The winter came early, and was unusually severe. Hardly had he left the city before the ground was deep with snow, and from that time onward he was harassed by Cossacks, while his men perished of hunger and cold. Do you know how many men were lost in the Russian campaign of 1812?" [Illustration: BATTLE BETWEEN FRENCH AND RUSSIANS.] "Yes," said Fred; "I have just been reading the history of the campaign. "According to the narrative of the Count de Segur," the youth continued, "the army with which Napoleon invaded Russia comprised four hundred and twenty thousand men. Very nearly half of these were French; the other half consisted of Poles, Italians, Austrians, Bavarians, Saxons, and other troops allied with the French. One hundred and eighty-seven thousand horses were employed for the cavalry, artillery, and baggage. There were eighty thousand cavalry and the artillery numbered one thousand three hundred and sixty-two pieces. There were great numbers of carts and wagons drawn by oxen, and immense herds of cattle driven along for supplying beef. "Three hundred thousand Russians gathered on the banks of the Niemen River to oppose the French advance, but the river was crossed without opposition. There was a battle at Smolensk, and another at Borodino, both of them being won by the French. At the battle of Borodino the loss on both sides amounted to eighty thousand killed and wounded. After that the Russians made no serious resistance. Napoleon entered Moscow without difficulty, and established his headquarters in the Kremlin, as you have said. On the battle-field of Borodino is a monument with this inscription: "'NAPOLEON ENTERED MOSCOW 1812; ALEXANDER ENTERED PARIS 1814.'" "So much for the advance," the Doctor remarked; "now tell us about the retreat." [Illustration: NAPOLEON RETREATING FROM MOSCOW.] "It was one of the most terrible retreats ever known in history. Out of all the Grand Army of nearly half a million men that crossed the Niemen in June, 1812, a little more than twelve thousand recrossed it in the following winter! It was estimated that one hundred and twenty thousand were killed in the various battles with the Russians, one hundred and thirty thousand died of disease, cold, and hunger, and not far from two hundred thousand were captured, or voluntarily left the army and remained with the Russians. Many of the latter died within the next few years, and others settled in the country and never reached their homes again. On the line of the march of the Grand Army their descendants may be found to-day living in the villages where their fathers died, and thoroughly Russian in their language and habits. The Russians are said to have treated their prisoners kindly, and doubtless they had orders from the Government to do so." Frank asked if the French army made any attempt to reach St. Petersburg. [Illustration: ALEXANDER I.] "As before stated, it was Napoleon's intention," the Doctor answered, "to spend the winter in Moscow, and move upon St. Petersburg in the spring. But the burning of Moscow made it impossible for him to remain, and thus his plans were spoiled. Russia refused to make terms of peace with him, and some of his messages to the Emperor Alexander I. were not even answered. The Russians doubtless knew that cold and hunger would compel a retreat, and they could rely upon the winter and the Cossacks to make it disastrous. "Russia had concluded a treaty of peace with Turkey, which would release a large army to fight against the French. She had also made a treaty with the King of Sweden, by which the troops of the latter would join the Russian army early in the spring, as soon as the weather and the roads would permit them to march. It was certain that Napoleon would be overwhelmed if he remained, and the only alternative was the retreat. "The army that came to Moscow was about one hundred thousand strong; all the rest of the available forces of the Grand Army were left to garrison places on the road to the Niemen and to collect provisions. One hundred and sixty thousand men crossed the bridge at Smolensk in the march to Moscow; twenty thousand were killed on the road, and forty thousand were left to guard the magazines, hospitals, and stores at some four or five places. The terrible waste of war can be no better illustrated than in the story of Napoleon's campaign to Moscow. At Kovno, in Lithuania, is a monument with the inscription: "'NAPOLEON MARCHED THROUGH HERE WITH 700,000 MEN; HE MARCHED BACK WITH 70,000. "And now," he continued, "I think you understand why Moscow presents so many irregularities in its architecture. In the spring of 1813 the people began to build again, and everything was done in a hurry. Those who could afford the time and money necessary to build good houses were the few rather than the many. Most of the Russians had been impoverished in the war, and could only afford the cheapest of dwellings, while those who had not lost everything were desirous of obtaining shelter as soon as possible. The custom of that day has continued in a certain measure to the present, as you can see by looking around you." For a knowledge of what our friends saw in Moscow we will refer as heretofore to the journals kept by the youths, together with extracts from their letters to friends at home. "The first thing we wanted to see," said Fred, in his journal, "was the Kremlin, or ancient fortress of Moscow, on the bank of the river Moskva, from which the city is named. We saw many other things on the way there, but had no interest in them, and will leave their description to a later page. We were all eyes, ears, and thoughts for the Kremlin, and nothing else. [Illustration: VIEW IN THE KREMLIN.] "Nobody can tell positively what the word 'kremlin' comes from, but it certainly means fortress or space enclosed with strong walls. The walls of the Kremlin of Moscow are about one mile and a half in circuit, and from fifty to sixty feet high; they are entered by five gates, of which the principal is the _spaski_, or 'Redeemer.' This gate was built in 1491, and over it there is a picture of the Redeemer of Smolensk. Our guide told us we must remove our hats as we passed through this gate-way, out of respect for the ways of the people. Formerly a failure to do so was severely punished, but now there is no compulsion about it. Not even the Emperor is exempt from the custom, and you may be sure we did not attract attention by our neglect. [Illustration: A PRISONER ORDERED TO EXECUTION.] "It was in front of this gate that executions formerly took place, and the victims offered their last prayers to the Redeemer of Smolensk. Happily there are now no signs of these executions, and everything has an air of peace and happiness. The gate of next importance is the _Nikolsky_, or Nicholas Gate, which is ornamented and made sacred in the eyes of orthodox Russians by the picture of St. Nicholas of Mojaisk. The gate was partly destroyed by order of Napoleon; a large quantity of gunpowder was placed under it and fired, but the explosion only split the tower in the middle and up to the frame of the picture. The glass over the picture and the lamp burning in front of it were not harmed. As the occurrence was considered in the light of a miracle, an inscription describing it was placed there by Alexander I. "Another gate, called the _Troitska_, or Trinity, is memorable as the one by which the French entered and left the Kremlin in 1812. Several times it has been the passage-way of conquering armies. Besides the French in the nineteenth century, it admitted the Poles in the seventeenth, the Tartars in the sixteenth (1551), and the Lithuanians in the fourteenth centuries. Only a small part of the Kremlin was destroyed in the great fire of 1812; it was held by Napoleon's troops when the fire broke out, and when the invaders retired their attempts to blow up the walls and ignite the buildings did not succeed. "After looking at the exterior of the walk and admiring the picturesque situation of the Kremlin, we passed through the gate, and went at once to the tower of Ivan Veliki (John the Great). We had been advised to see this tower first of all, as it was the best point from which to obtain a general view of the city. [Illustration: THE KREMLIN OF MOSCOW.] "There is some doubt as to the antiquity of the tower, but it is generally believed to date from the year 1600, and to have been built by Boris Godounoff. It is in five stories, of which the upper is in the form of a cylinder, while the others are octagonal in shape. The top is two hundred and seventy feet from the ground, and is reached by a winding stairway. "The guide called our attention to the bells in the tower; there are no less than thirty-four of them, and some are very large. In the second story hangs a bell known as the 'Assumption,' which weighs sixty-four tons; it is therefore four times as heavy as the great bell of Rouen, five times that of Erfurt, and eight times as heavy as the Great Tom of Oxford, the largest bell in England! The oldest of the other bells bears the date 1550; the vechie bell of Novgorod the Great once hung in this tower, but nobody knows where it is at present. The effect of the ringing of these bells at Easter is said to be very fine, as they are of different tones, and so arranged that they make no discord. In the upper story are two silver bells, whose tones are said to be very sweet. "We stopped a while at each of the stories to look at the bells and enjoy the view, and thus reached the top without much fatigue. But if we had been so weary as to be unable to stand, we should have been amply repaid for our fatigue. The view is certainly one of the finest we ever had from a height overlooking any city in Europe, with the possible exceptions of Paris and Constantinople. "Moscow, with its undulating and irregular streets, with the Moskva winding through it in the shape of the letter S, with its four hundred churches and an immense variety of towers and domes and minarets, with the variations of palace and hovel already mentioned, and with the great buildings of the Kremlin forming the foreground of the scene, lay before and below us. It was Moscow (the Holy), the city of the Czars and beloved of every patriotic Russian; the city which has existed through Tartar, Polish, and French invasions; has risen from the ashes again and again; has been ravaged by famine, the plague, and the sword of the invader, but surviving all her calamities, welcomes the stranger within her walls, whose circuit is more than twenty miles. From the top of this tower we looked down upon seven centuries of historical associations. "Listen to a fragment of the history of Moscow: It was plundered by the Tartars under Tamerlane, and many of its inhabitants were killed; again it fell into Tartar hands, and again was pillaged, and its inhabitants murdered. Twice under the Tartars (1536 and 1572) it was set on fire, and on both occasions many thousands of people perished by fire or sword. The Poles burned a large part of the city in 1611, and in 1771 the plague carried off half the population. Is it any wonder that the Russians love their ancient capital, after all that it has suffered and survived? [Illustration: THE GREAT BELL UNDERGROUND.] "We lingered for an hour or more in the tower, and then descended. Our next object of interest was the '_Czar Kolokol_,' or Great Bell, which stands at the foot of the Ivan Veliki Tower, and near the place where for a long time it lay buried in the earth. It is literally the great bell not only of Moscow but of the world. "It has a strange history. It is said to have been cast originally in the time of Boris Godounoff, and a traveller in 1611 mentions a bell in Russia which required twenty-four men to swing the clapper. During a fire it fell to the ground and was broken; in 1654 it was recast, and weighed at that time 288,000 pounds. Twenty years later it was suspended from a wooden beam at the foot of the tower; the beam gave way during a fire in 1706, and the bell was again broken. The Empress Anne ordered it recast in 1733, but it only lasted four years. The falling of some rafters in 1737 broke the bell as we now see it, and it lay on the ground just ninety-nine years, or until 1836, when it was raised and placed in its present position by the Emperor Nicholas. "And how large do you think it is? "It is thought to weigh 444,000 pounds, or 220 tons; it is nineteen feet three inches in height, and sixty feet nine inches in circumference, or twenty feet three inches in diameter. Just stop and measure these figures with your eye in a barn or a large room of a house, and then realize what this great bell is. [Illustration: VISITING THE GREAT BELL.] "Look at the picture of the bell, and see the piece that is broken out of it. This piece is six feet high, and both of us walked through the place left by its removal without any difficulty. There is an inscription on the bell which gives its history, and it presents also several sacred figures and the portraits of the Czar Alexis and the Empress Anne. [Illustration: EMPRESS ANNE.] "From the Great Bell we went to the Nicholas Palace, which occupies the site of the one destroyed by the French at the time of their retreat, and then to the _Bolshoi Dvorets_, or Great Palace. "The state apartments are numerous and gorgeous; their number is absolutely bewildering, and so is the array of furniture, paintings, statuary, and other valuables that are gathered there. In the Emperor's cabinet there are pictures representing the battles of Borodino and Smolensk, and also of the French entering and leaving Moscow. There are halls dedicated to St. George, St. Alexander Nevski, and St. Andrew, all of them hung with battle-flags, and the last--the Hall of St. Andrew--containing the Emperor's throne. In some of the halls are paintings representing scenes in the history of Poland. They were brought from Warsaw, where they once hung in the Royal castle. "They showed us the 'Red Staircase,' which is used by the Emperor on state occasions, and was the spot where in former times the Czar allowed the people to see him. Napoleon and his marshals ascended these steps when they took possession of the Kremlin, and it was from the top of the staircase that John the Terrible saw the comet which caused him to tremble with fear. "Then they took us to the banqueting-room, where the Emperor dines with his nobles immediately after the ceremony of coronation, and beyond it to the _Terem_, which was formerly occupied by the wife and children of the Czar. It is now filled with articles of historic interest: the seals of Russian sovereigns, the certificate of the election of Michael, first of the Romanoffs, to the Russian throne, and several copies of the Evangelists, on parchment, and said to be five hundred years old. "Near the Great Palace is the Treasury, which reminded us of The Hermitage of St. Petersburg, or the more famous Tower of London. It is filled with all sorts of curious things, many of them of enormous value. It has been said that the national debt of Russia could be paid from the sale of the pearls, diamonds, and other precious things in the Treasury of Moscow. Perhaps this is not strictly true, but certainly they would go a long way towards doing so. "What we saw in the Treasury would take too long to tell; and besides, it would be a catalogue filling many pages of our note-books. Armor and weapons of all times and forms can be seen here. There are faded and tattered flags that tell of the glory of Russia; here is the flag carried by the soldiers of John the Terrible at the capture of Kazan; the flag under which Yermak conquered Siberia and added it to the Russian Empire; the flag which a little band of Cossacks carried to the shores of the Pacific Ocean more than two hundred years ago; and here are the flags which belonged to the Regiment of _Streltsi_, which rebelled against Peter the Great. [Illustration: THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH.] "Here are thrones and coronation chairs in goodly number. The first is that of the Empress Elizabeth, and near it are the coronation chairs of Paul I. and Alexander II. In the centre of the room where these chairs are standing is the =baldachino=, under which the Emperor and Empress walk at their coronation, and at the farther end is a stand of colors given by Alexander I. to his Polish regiment, and afterwards captured at the storming of Warsaw, in 1831. The royal throne of Poland is in another room, along with the throne of Kazan, which is studded with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and turquoises, as are several other thrones. One throne contains over eight hundred diamonds and twice as many rubies, and it is by no means the most costly one in the collection. Near the thrones are the coronation robes worn by several of the emperors and empresses, and there is also a masquerade dress which belonged to Catherine the Great. "We lingered over a glass case containing the decoration of the Order of the Garter and its diploma, which Queen Elizabeth sent to John the Terrible. "Another gift from the good Queen to the cruel Czar was the state carriage which stands in one of the rooms of the Treasury, along with several other vehicles, all of the olden time. One is on runners, and large enough for a whole family; it has a table and benches covered with green cloth, and was used by the Empress Elizabeth in her journeys between St. Petersburg and Moscow. "Enough of curiosities. We grew weary with seeing the relics of the rulers of Russia, though all were full of interest, and willingly followed our guide to the churches that stand within the walls of the Kremlin. The first is the Church of the Assumption, in which the emperors are crowned, and where the patriarchs formerly officiated. The church dates from 1475, and occupies the site of another which was erected one hundred and fifty years earlier. It has been altered and restored several times, but remains very much in shape and general appearance as it was four hundred years ago. "In the church is a shrine of silver in memory of St. Philip, a patriarch of the Church, who had the temerity to rebuke John the Terrible for his misdeeds, and was imprisoned and put to death in consequence. The hand of St. Philip is exposed, and whenever the Emperor comes here he never fails to kiss the sacred relic. "There are tombs and shrines in great number, and a large part of the religious history of Russia belongs to this building. Every Czar of the Empire, from John the Terrible to Alexander III., has been crowned here, and the most sacred pictures in the whole country are deposited along the altar screen. [Illustration: CORONATION OF ALEXANDER III.] "Dean Stanley says of the Imperial coronation in the Church of the Assumption: "'The coronation, even at the present time, is not a mere ceremony, but an historical event and solemn consecration. It is preceded by fasting and seclusion, and takes place in the most sacred church in Russia, the Emperor, not as in the corresponding forms of European investiture, a passive recipient, but himself the principal figure in the whole scene; himself reciting aloud the confession of the orthodox faith; himself alone on his knees, amid the assembled multitude, offering up the prayer of intercession for the Empire; himself placing his crown on his own head; himself entering through the sacred door of the innermost sanctuary, and taking from the altar the elements of the bread and the wine.' "There are two other cathedrals in the Kremlin, that of the Archangel Michael and the Cathedral of the Annunciation. The three cathedrals, with the tower of Ivan Veliki, which has a chapel in its lower story, form a square, which is frequently called the Grand Square of the Kremlin. We visited the cathedrals in the order named, and it was quite appropriate that when we had finished with that of the Assumption, where the Czars are crowned, we should go to the Michael Cathedral, where, down to the time of Peter the Great, they were buried. The tombs are quite plain in appearance, a marked contrast to the elaborate decorations of the building, whose interior is covered with frescos which represent scenes in the lives of the Czars, together with their portraits. "One of the tombs was covered with a black cloth, and we asked the guide what it meant. "'That is the tomb of John the Terrible,' said he, 'and the black cloth is to show that he assumed the cowl of a monk an hour or so before he died. He wanted to atone for his many cruelties, and this is the way he did it.' "The guide further told us that in ancient times when any one wished to present a petition to the Czar he came to this church and placed the paper on one of the tombs. By a long-established custom which had the force of law, no one but a Czar could remove it. In this way the ruler could be reached when all other means of approaching him were unavailable. What a pity the custom does not continue to the present time! [Illustration: PETER II.] "The only emperor buried here is Peter II., son of Alexis and grandson of Peter the Great. As before stated, the Imperial burial-place has been at St. Petersburg since that city was founded. "While the Czars were crowned in the Cathedral of the Assumption and buried in that of St. Michael, they were baptized and married in that of the Annunciation, which was the next we visited. Its floor is of jasper and agate, and it has nine cupolas, heavily covered with gilding. The cross on the centre cupola is said to be of solid gold--a statement open to a good deal of doubt, though by no means entirely improbable when we remember what treasures are stored in the Kremlin. The interior of this church is covered with frescos, and like the others is adorned with pictures set in precious stones. "Mentioning the cupolas of this church reminds us that the cupolas of the Russian churches vary all the way from one up to thirteen, the number being nearly always odd. Usually they have five cupolas; the building is in the form of a Greek cross, and there is a cupola at each corner and another in the centre, the latter being the largest. The idea of the five cupolas came from Constantinople, whence the Russian Church derived its religion. The earliest church at Novgorod had five cupolas, and was copied from the Church of St. Sophia at Constantinople, which was converted into a mosque at the time of the Moslem conquest. The largest number on any of the churches of Moscow is on that of St. Basil, which has thirteen in all. [Illustration: BISHOP IN HIS ROBES.] "There are other small churches and chapels in the Kremlin, but we had not sufficient time to examine them all. In the sacristy of the Holy Synod, which stands behind the Cathedral of the Assumption, we saw in glass cases the robes of the patriarchs of the Church, some of them dating back more than five hundred years. They are covered with pearls and all kinds of precious stones; one, which was presented by John the Terrible to the metropolitan Denys, is said to weigh fifty-four pounds in consequence of the great number of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, garnets, and other jewels which are fastened to it. "The attendant left us quite alone in the room with all these valuables; the guide said this was the custom, but that we were by no means out of sight. Through holes in the ceiling watchful eyes were said to be peering, and any attempt to open the cases and remove the valuables would result in serious consequences. How much truth there was in his statement we do not know. We looked at the ceiling, but could not see any peep-holes, but for all that they may have been there. "You wonder how it happened that the French did not carry away the treasures of the Kremlin when they retreated from Moscow. The fact is, most of the treasures were removed to Nijni Novgorod as the French advanced, and when they arrived there was not a great deal to plunder. They carried off many things, which were afterwards recaptured by the Russians during the retreat and restored to their places, but it was not until the French were completely out of the country that the valuables and relics which had been carried to Nijni Novgorod were returned. "The invaders hacked at some of the frames of the holy pictures in the Church of the Assumption, and the marks of their knives are still visible. In the Cathedral of the Annunciation the French stabled their horses, and the other churches were used as barracks by the troops. The Kremlin was mined in several places, but the explosions did very little damage. Probably the French officers who had charge of the mining were in a great hurry and did not attend properly to their work. "Our guide was a Russian; and after he had told us about the use of the cathedral as a stable, he led the way to the spot where the cannon captured from the French in the retreat are exhibited. 'There,' said he, 'are eight hundred and seventy-five cannon which were captured in the retreat of the Grand Army; three hundred and sixty-five of them--one for every day in the year--are French, one hundred and eighty-nine are Austrian, and the rest are from the various troops allied with the French at that time. Altogether they weigh about three hundred and fifty tons. A Frenchman proposed that they should be melted down and cast into a memorial column, but the Russians think they are better just as they are.' "We agreed with him that it was very natural a Frenchman should make such a proposal and the Russians reject it. An amusing thing is that some of the guns bear the names 'Invincible,' 'Eagle,' 'Conqueror,' 'Triumph,' and the like, quite in mockery of their captive condition. "Doctor Bronson said he was reminded of an incident that is said to have happened in an American navy-yard fifteen or twenty years after the war of 1812, between the United States and Great Britain. "An Englishman was visiting the navy-yard, and while wandering among the cannon which lay peacefully in one of the parks, he found one which bore the British crown, with the stamp 'G. R.' beneath it. The stamp and crown told very plainly the history of the gun, but the Briton was doubtful. Turning to a sailor who was standing near, he remarked, "'It's easy enough to put that stamp on a gun of Yankee make.' "'How long do you think it would take?' "'About half an hour.' "'Well,' replied the sailor, 'we took forty-four of those guns, with the stamps already on, in just seventeen minutes."[4] [4] Referring to the battle between the _Constitution_ and _Guerriere_, August 19, 1812. "The stranger had no more conundrums to propose. [Illustration: GREAT GUN AT MOSCOW.] "There are seven monster cannon in front of one of the arsenals in the Kremlin that have probably never enjoyed the honor of being fired; certainly some of them would be likely to burst if filled with an ordinary charge of powder. The smallest weighs four tons and the largest forty tons. Some of them are unusually long in proportion to their diameter, and others are exactly the reverse. The largest was cast in 1586, if we may believe an inscription upon it, at the orders of the Czar Feodor; but whether it was intended for ornament or use is difficult to say. It is remarkable as a piece of casting; and the carriage is nearly as interesting as the gun. We enclose a photograph; and by comparing the cannon with the figures of the soldiers seated below the muzzle, you can get an idea of the colossal size of this piece. [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL AT MOSCOW.] "As we came out through the 'Holy Gate' of the Kremlin we were in front of the Church of St. Basil, the one whose architect is said to have been blinded by order of John the Terrible, to make sure that the structure should not be duplicated. It stands on the site of an ancient church where St. Basil was buried, in 1552. It was begun in 1555, and is said to have occupied twenty years in building. "There is not anywhere in the world a more fantastic church than this; none of its towers and domes resemble each other, and they present all the colors of the rainbow. One of the cupolas is striped like a melon, while another suggests a pineapple; another is like an onion in shape and general appearance; another suggests a turban covered with folds; and still another might readily have been copied from an artichoke. The stripes are as strange as the forms, and the irreverent could be forgiven for calling this the Harlequin Church in consequence of its peculiar architecture. "Napoleon ordered his engineers to destroy 'The Mosque,' as he called the Church of St. Basil, but for some unexplained reason the order was not carried out. In the chapel below the church is the shrine of the saint, but it presents nothing remarkable; and altogether the building is more interesting from an external than from an internal view." [Illustration: NAPOLEON'S RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.] CHAPTER XIII. THE GREAT THEATRE OF MOSCOW.--OPERATIC PERFORMANCES.--THE KITAI GOROD AND GOSTINNA DVOR.--ROMANOFF HOUSE AND THE ROMANOFF FAMILY.--SKETCH OF THE RULERS OF RUSSIA.--ANECDOTES OF PETER THE GREAT AND OTHERS.--CHURCH OF THE SAVIOUR.--MOSQUES AND PAGODAS.--THE MUSEUM.--RIDING-SCHOOL.--SUHAREFF TOWER.--TRAKTIRS.--OLD BELIEVERS.--THE SPARROW HILLS AND THE SIMONOFF MONASTERY. The best part of a day was consumed in the Kremlin and in the Church of St. Basil. Further investigation of old Moscow was postponed to the morrow. In the evening our friends went to the Opera-house to listen to some national music, but more particularly to see the house, which is one of the curiosities of the city. The "_Bolshoi Teatre_" or "Great Theatre," is one of the finest opera-houses in the world. It was built in 1855-56, to replace the smaller opera-house which had been destroyed by fire about two years before. A few months after it was opened there was a performance in the theatre, entitled "1756 and 1856," to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the establishment of government theatres in Russia. From the material in the possession of the youths, and by a careful use of eyes and note-books, Fred wrote the following account of the Moscow Opera-house, and added to the information about theatrical matters which appears in a previous chapter. "The first recorded representation of a theatrical character in Russia is assigned to the reign of Alexis Michailovitch, father of Peter the Great. It was given in the house of the father-in-law of Alexis, but very little is known of its character. Russian writers say their first regular dramas were in the time of Feodor Alexeivitch (half-brother and predecessor of Peter the Great), and were written by the Czar's tutor. They were produced in one of the suburban palaces, and had a religious character, as we infer from the titles 'Prodigal Son,' 'King Nebuchadnezzar,' 'Three Men in the Fiery Furnace,' and 'The Golden Calf.' The Czar's tutor was a monk, and the plays were performed by the students attached to the monastery. [Illustration: DRESS OF PEASANTS--SCENE FROM A RUSSIAN OPERA.] "Peter the Great determined to develop the drama, and engaged a Hungarian actor, who happened to be at Moscow, to look after the matter. This actor went to Germany and engaged a troupe, and among them was a man who divided his time between theatrical affairs and ship-building. When he was not ship-building he was writing plays and managing Peter's theatre at Moscow, and he seems to have engaged in the two occupations with equal facility. Peter attended the performances accompanied by his officers. In order to encourage the drama there was no admission fee, the company being supported by the Government. "At first the performances took place in a large hall of the Suhareff Tower. After a time a wooden theatre was built near the Kremlin, and performances were given regularly. The City of Yaroslav established a theatre of its own under the direction of Feodor Volkhoff, an actor who afterwards became famous in Russia. In 1752 he was summoned to St. Petersburg by the Empress Elizabeth, to direct performances at the court theatre, and in 1756 the Empress issued an Imperial order establishing a government theatre in the capital. The centennial of this event was the celebration referred to. [Illustration: A DRESSING-ROOM OF THE OPERA-HOUSE.] "The Moscow Opera-house stands in a square by itself not far from the Kremlin. Carriages can be driven all around it, and there are three entrances for spectators besides the one reserved to the actors. The theatre is never crowded, as only as many tickets are sold as there are seats, and no money is taken at the doors. There are five rows of boxes besides the parquette, or ground-floor, and the gallery, which occupies the whole of the upper tier. We had our places in the parquette, and found them very comfortable. Each seat is a separate arm-chair, with plenty of space around it, so that one may walk about between the acts without disturbing his neighbors. [Illustration: WORKING THE SHIP IN "L'AFRICAINE."] "The waits between the acts were very long, according to our American ideas, but there was a reason for this. We found an attendant who spoke French, and through his assistance and his expectation of a fee we visited an unoccupied box on one of the principal tiers. The box had plenty of seating-room for half a dozen persons; the attendant said ten or twelve were frequently packed into it, but it was only unfashionable people who ever thought of thus crowding a box. Each box has a little cabinet or parlor back of it, where one may receive friends, and a great deal of visiting goes on between the acts. The arrangement is an Italian one, and the same feature exists in opera-houses in other parts of Europe. "To give you an idea of the size of the house, let me quote a few figures comparing it with the principal theatres of Milan, Naples, and London. The measurements are in English feet: Diameter of ceiling, La Scala, Milan 70 Diameter of ceiling, San Carlo, Naples 73 Diameter of ceiling, Covent Garden, London 65 Diameter of ceiling, Moscow Opera-house =98= Opening of proscenium, La Scala, Milan 51 Opening of proscenium, San Carlo, Naples 58 Opening of proscenium, Covent Garden, London 50 Opening of proscenium, Moscow Opera-house =70= "The stage of the Moscow Opera-house is 126 feet wide and 112 feet deep. At Covent Garden Theatre the respective figures are 88 and 90 feet. "We had a great deal of curiosity to see the famous drop-scene, which represents the triumphal entry of Minin and Pojarsky into the Kremlin, after the expulsion of the Poles from Moscow in 1612. It is a magnificent picture, painted by Duzi, a Venetian artist, and represents the two liberators on horseback near the Holy Gate of the Kremlin, surrounded by citizens of all classes and conditions. Prince Pojarsky looks like an Oriental, as he is dressed in the costume which was worn by the boyards or noblemen down to the time of Peter the Great. The peasant class are in their holiday dress; the women wear _sarafans_ and _kokoshniks_ which are quite like those worn by many of them at the present time, while the men are mostly in girdled _caftans_, just as we see thousands of them daily. French fashions have taken a hold among the nobility and wealthy people of Russia generally, but have no effect on the peasantry. The common people will probably adhere to their present costume until ordered by Imperial decree to adopt a new one. [Illustration: MININ-POJARSKY MONUMENT.] "We spent nearly the whole time of the wait between the first and second acts in contemplating this picture, and found plenty to occupy us. We have already mentioned the Minin-Pojarsky Monument, which stands near the gate of the Kremlin, and reminds the people of an important event in their national history. Between the monument and the painting, the Russians are not likely to forget the patriotism of the cattle-dealer and the Prince." From the theatre our friends went straight to the hotel and to bed, tired enough with their day's exertions, but amply repaid for all their fatigue. Next morning they were off in good season, or rather Frank and Fred were, as the Doctor decided to remain at the hotel, while the youths devoted the forenoon to sights that he did not especially care for. Having been in Moscow before, he was willing to leave some of the stock sights out of his programme. Their first visit was to the bazaar, which bears the name of "_Kitai Gorod_" or "Chinese Town." The bazaar is often said to be so called because of the great number of Tartars doing business there--the descendants of the Mongols, who so long held Moscow in their hands. According to some writers this belief is erroneous. They assert that, originally, all of Moscow was inside the Kremlin; but as the necessity came for extending the city, an order was given by Helena (mother of John the Terrible, and Regent during his minority) for enclosing a large space outside the Kremlin, which was to be named after her birthplace, Kitaigrod, in Podolia. Its walls were begun in 1535 by an Italian architect. "We went," said Frank, "through the Gostinna Dvor of Moscow, which fills an enormous building in the Kitai Gorod, and is in some respects more interesting than that of St. Petersburg, though practically of the same character. The display of Russian goods is about like that in the capital city, though there is possibly a greater quantity of silver work, Circassian goods, and similar curiosities peculiar to the country. Much of the money-changing is in the hands of Tartars; where the changers are not of the Tartar race, they are generally Jews. Russian Tartars and Jews use the _abacus_ in counting, and they work it with wonderful rapidity. We saw it in St. Petersburg, but it was not so much employed there as in Moscow. The abacus has undergone very little change in two or three thousand years. It was introduced by the Tartar conquerors of Russia, and promises to remain permanently in the Empire. "What a quantity of silks, embroideries, silverware, and the like are piled in the bazaar! and what an array of clothing, household goods, furniture, and other practical and unpractical things of every name and kind! It was the Bazaar of St. Petersburg over again, with the absence of certain features, that suggested Western Europe and the addition of others belonging to the Orient. The second-hand market was encumbered with old clothes, pots, pans, boots, furniture, and odds and ends of everything, and we were so pestered by the peddlers that we went through the place pretty quickly. "The guide took us to Romanoff House, which was built near the end of the sixteenth century, and was the birthplace of Michael, the first Czar of the present reigning family. Of the original house only the walls remain; the interior was destroyed by the French, who plundered the building and then set it on fire, and only the great thickness and solidity of the walls preserved them. "Romanoff House, as we saw it to-day, is an excellent example of the Russian house of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and in this respect it is very interesting. The last restoration was made in 1858-59, and the Government has spent quite an amount of money in putting it in order. "It is four stories high, and built around a court-yard from which the rooms on the ground-floor are entered. In the basement are cellars for storing provisions, and on the floor above it are the kitchens, temporary store-rooms, and the like. In the next story are the rooms where the prince lived; they include a reception-room, rooms for servants, several smaller rooms, and also some secret recesses in the walls where silver plate and other valuables were kept. The rooms are adorned with utensils of former periods, together with many articles of silver and other metals that belonged to the Romanoff family long ago. "The upper story is called the _terem_, a word which is equivalent to the Turkish _harem_. The terem was reserved to the women and children, but not so rigidly as is the harem among the Moslems. Beds, bedsteads, playthings, and articles of clothing are among the curiosities in the terem of Romanoff House. Among them are the slippers of the Czar and the night-gown of the Czarina, which are kept in a box at the foot of the bed according to the old custom. "Romanoff House is in the Kitai Gorod, and from it we went to the place where Peter the Great witnessed the execution of many of his rebellious _streltzi_, or guards. Perhaps you would like to hear the story? [Illustration: PETER'S ESCAPE FROM ASSASSINATION.] "I believe we have already mentioned something about the strained relations between Peter and his sister Sophia, and how she plotted his assassination, from which he escaped by riding away in the night. Peter shut Sophia in a convent before going on his tour to Holland and England to learn the art of ship-building and obtain other information to aid him in the development of the Russian Empire. He distributed his troops in the best way he could think of, and confided the administration of affairs to his most trusted officers. "But even then he was constantly fearful of trouble. He knew the ambition of his sister, and the opposition that many of the old nobility had to his reforms, and he was well aware that many officers of the army did not favor his plans. Consequently, when news of the rebellion reached him at Vienna he was not entirely unprepared, and hastened homeward as fast as horses could carry him. "The conspiracy included many nobles, officers, and others, together with the immediate advisers of his sister. The clergy were on the side of the conspiracy; they opposed the reforms, and preferred keeping things as they had been, rather than adopt the ways of Western Europe. It is said at present that the Russian Government would change the calendar from old style to new style, and make it conform to the rest of the civilized world, but for the opposition of the Church. The priests assert that it would cause a great deal of confusion with the saints' days, and therefore they refuse their approval of the measure. "The streltzi had been distributed at points far removed from Moscow. Under pretence of coming to get their pay, they marched to the city, where they were met by General Gordon, an English officer who commanded the Government troops at the time. Gordon defeated the streltzi, and then by torturing some of the prisoners learned the history of the conspiracy. It was to place Sophia on the throne in place of Peter, and a great many persons were implicated in the scheme. News of the occurrence was sent to Peter at Vienna, and hastened his return as described. [Illustration: PETER THE GREAT AS EXECUTIONER.] "On arriving in Moscow, he made the most searching inquiry, and by torturing some of those who had fallen into his hands he obtained the names of many others. There is no doubt that innocent persons were implicated, as the victims of torture are apt to tell anything, whether true or false, in order to escape from their pain. Those implicated were immediately arrested and put to death, many of them with torture. Nobles, ladies of rank, officers and soldiers, comprised the list. On the spot where we stood to-day hundreds of the streltzi were beheaded, and altogether several thousands of people were killed. Peter himself took part in the executions, if report is true. Once, at a banquet, he ordered twenty of the prisoners to be brought in, and a block arranged for the fearful ceremony. Then he called for a glass of wine. After drinking it, he beheaded the victim, who had been placed on the block, and then he called for another victim and another glass of wine. It is said that he was just one hour in performing the twenty executions; and after he had finished he went in person to the great square in front of the Kremlin, where other executions were going on. "While he was witnessing one of these executions, one of the prisoners who was about to lose his head came forward as coolly as though he were entering a dining-hall. 'Make way for us,' he said, as he kicked the fallen heads from his path--'make way here, make way.' "Just as the man lay down upon the block and the executioner raised his axe, Peter ordered the prisoner to be liberated. He pardoned him on the spot, remarking that there was good stuff in a man who could walk so gallantly to his own execution. Peter's prediction was correct; and who do you suppose the man was? "His name was Orloff. He was a faithful adherent of Peter for the rest of his life, and rose to the command of his armies. He was the founder of the Orloff family, which has ever since been prominent in Russian matters, and continues so down to the present day. Various members of the family have been distinguished in land and naval warfare, and in diplomacy and home affairs. One of them was the intimate friend and adviser of Catherine II. He was a man of gigantic stature and great personal courage, and is said to have strangled with his own hands the unfortunate emperor Peter III., in order to place the disconsolate widow Catherine on the throne. [Illustration: CATHERINE I.] "Catherine II. should not be confounded with Catherine I. It was Catherine II., surnamed 'The Great,' to whom I have just referred, as the conspirator who gained the throne by the murder of her husband. Catherine I. was the widow of Peter the Great, and mother of the Empress Elizabeth. She had great influence over the founder of the Empire, and though not always controlling his violent temper, she did much towards suppressing it on many occasions. [Illustration: CATHERINE II.] "While we are in sight of Romanoff House let us run over the list of those who have held the throne since the first of this family ascended it. Here they are: "1. Michael Feodorovitch (first of the Romanoffs). "2. Alexis Mikailovitch (son of Michael). "3. Feodor Alexeivitch (son of Alexis). "4. Ivan Alexeivitch (brother of No. 3). "5. Peter Alexeivitch (Peter I., or, "The Great"). "6. Catherine I. (widow of Peter I.). "7. Peter II. (grandson of Peter I.). "8. Anna (niece of Peter I.). "9. Ivan III. (imprisoned in his infancy, and afterwards assassinated). "10. Elizabeth (daughter of Peter I.). "11. Peter III. (great-grandson of Peter I.). "12. Catherine II. "13. Paul I. (son of Catherine II.). "14. Alexander I. (son of Paul I.). "15. Nicholas I. (brother of Alexander I.). "16. Alexander II. (son of Nicholas I). "17. Alexander III. (son of Alexander II.). "It is a circumstance worthy of note that in the thirty-seven years between the death of Peter the Great and the accession of Catherine the Great, Russia had three emperors and three empresses; the emperors reigned, but cannot be said to have ruled, only three and a half years altogether, while the empresses held the throne for the rest of the time. Catherine was Empress from 1762 till 1796; so that during the eighteenth century the Russian crown was worn by women for nearly seventy years. [Illustration: GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS ALEXANDROVITCH.] "The heir to the throne at present is too young to have made his mark in any way; and besides, he has had no opportunity, even if he were of age. His name is Nicholas; he is the eldest son of Alexander III., and when he ascends the throne he will be known as Nicholas II. He was born in 1868, and is said to be a young man of great promise. "Four at least of the seventeen rulers named above were murdered, and there were suspicions of poisoning in the cases of two others. Consequently the description of the Government of Russia as 'despotism tempered by assassination' is not so very far from the truth. "It is sometimes said that the Romanoff family is more German than Russian, in consequence of the marriages of the emperors with German princesses. Peter the Great was pure Russian; his son Alexis, father of Peter II., married a German princess, and their daughter Anne married a German duke. Anne and the German duke were the parents of Peter III., the husband of Catherine II.; Peter III. and Catherine were the parents of Paul, who married a German princess, and the example has been followed by all the emperors. The Russian poet Pushkin used to represent in an amusing way the Germanizing of the Imperial family, which was as follows: "He placed in a goblet a spoonful of wine for the Czarevitch Alexis and a spoonful of water for his German wife. Then he added a spoonful of water for Anne's German husband, a third for Catherine II., and a fourth, fifth, and sixth for the German wives of Paul, Nicholas, and Alexander II. Were the poet alive to-day, he would add a seventh for the Danish wife of Alexander III., and an eighth for the wife of the young Nicholas, whoever she may be. "However little Russian blood may be running at present in the veins of the Romanoff family, there is no question about the thoroughly Russian character of the persons most concerned. Born and bred in Russia, it would be strange if the men were otherwise than national in their feelings; and as for the women who have been married into the Imperial family, they seem to have left everything behind them when they came to make their homes in Muscovy. There was never a more thorough Russian than Catherine II. When she came to the Imperial court at the age of fifteen she immediately went to work to learn the language, and in after-life she used to say that if she knew of a drop of blood in her veins that had not become Russian she would have it drawn out. "Before becoming the wives of the men of the Imperial family, all foreign princesses must be baptized and taken into the Russian Church. The ceremony is a very elaborate one, and is made a state affair. The members of the Imperial family are present, together with many high officials, who appear as witnesses, and there can be no exceptions to the rule that requires the Emperor's bride to be of his religion. Family, home, religion, everything must be given up by the woman who is to become an Empress of Russia. "Well, we will leave Romanoff House and the Kitai Gorod, and go to see something else. Our guide suggests the Church of the Saviour, which has only recently been completed. It was built to commemorate the retreat of the French from Moscow. Our guide, whose arithmetic is a good deal at fault, says they have been working at it for more than a hundred years. "Though not so quaint as the churches we have seen, it is certainly the finest in the city. It is in the form of a Greek cross, and the central cupola, eighty-four feet in diameter, rises three hundred and forty-three feet above the ground. In front of the church there are statues of the Russian generals of the early part of the century; the outside is adorned with bronze reliefs, which are strangely divided between Scriptural subjects and the war of 1812. The interior of the building is finished with highly polished porphyry, lapis-lazuli, and other costly stones, and there is a profusion of paintings ornamenting the walls. We spent half an hour or more at the church, and were loath to leave it. "In addition to its many churches of the Greek faith, Moscow is like St. Petersburg in containing churches representing all the religions of a Christian city, together with synagogues for the Jews and mosques for the Tartars. Some Chinese who once lived in Moscow had a pagoda, where they worshipped idols as in their own country, but our guide says there are no Chinese here at present. Of course we had not sufficient time for visiting all the churches of Moscow, and told the guide to take us only to those which were really remarkable. We saw perhaps a dozen in addition to those I have named. They were interesting to us who saw them, but I omit a description lest it might prove tedious. "We went to the Museum, which has a library of one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, a collection of minerals, and a great number of paintings, engravings, and similar things. It did not impress us as much as did the Museum of St. Petersburg, but perhaps this is due to the fact that we were a good deal wearied after our long hours of sight-seeing, and were more desirous of a rest than anything else. [Illustration: SKINNED AND STUFFED MAN.] "One of the curiosities of the place was a skinned and stuffed man in a glass case. It reminded us of the cases in which the dress-makers exhibit the latest styles of feminine apparel; and the figure, though dead, was more 'life-like' than the wax models to which we are accustomed. It is the real skin of a man who once lived and moved and was of goodly stature. "From the Museum we went to the _Manège_, or riding-school, which is claimed to be the largest building in the world without any supporting pillars. Look at the figures of its measurement: length, 560 feet; width, 158 feet; height, 42 feet. "Perhaps some of the great railway-stations of Europe or America can surpass these measurements, but we certainly don't know of one that can. The space is large enough for two regiments of cavalry to perform their evolutions; and in the winter season, when the weather is too severe for out-door exercise, this riding-school is in constant use. It is heated by stoves ranged around the sides of the room, and is ornamented with numerous trophies of war, and representations of men in armor. The roof is low and rather flat, and even when the sun is shining the light is poor. "The Suhareff Tower, to which we next went, was chiefly interesting as a reminder of Peter the Great. At present it is utilized as a reservoir for supplying the city with water, and it performs its duty very well. It was formerly the north-western gate of the city, and a regiment of streltzi was kept here under command of Colonel Suhareff. When the streltzi revolted, in 1682, Suhareff's regiment remained faithful, and escorted Peter and his mother and brother to the Troitsa Monastery. "In grateful remembrance for their devotion, Peter caused this tower to be built and named after the colonel who commanded at the time. The architect tried to make something resembling a ship, but did not succeed very well. Peter used to have secret councils of state in this tower, and it was here that comedies were performed in 1771 by the first troupe of foreign actors that ever came to Russia. It is also said--" Here the journal stopped rather abruptly. Frank and Fred were summoned to go to the "_Troitska Traktir_" for dinner, and as they were both hungry and curious the journal was laid aside. We have had the description of a Russian dinner in the account of what they saw in St. Petersburg. The dinner in Moscow was much like the one already described, but the surroundings were different. The waiters were in snowy frocks and trousers, and the establishment was so large that it was said to employ one hundred and fifty waiters in the dining and tea rooms alone. [Illustration: RUSSIAN BEGGARS.] Many of the patrons of the place were taking nothing but tea, and the _samovar_ was everywhere. Frank and Fred thought they had never seen waiters more attentive than at this traktir. They seemed to understand beforehand what was wanted, and a single glance was sure to bring one of them to the table. They did a great deal more than the waiters do in Western Europe. They offered to cut up the food so that it could be eaten with a fork, and they poured out the tea, instead of leaving the patron to pour for himself. Frank observed that nearly every one who entered the place said his prayers in front of the holy picture. There is a picture in every room of the establishment, so that the devout worshipper is never at a loss. Another day they went to the "_Moskovski Traktir_" a large restaurant similar to the Troitska, and containing an enormous organ which is said to have cost more than fifty thousand dollars. The Russians are very fond of music of the mechanical sort, and their country is one of the best markets of the Swiss makers of organs and music-boxes. In the best houses all through Russia expensive instruments of this kind can be found, and sometimes the barrel-organs are large enough to fill a respectably-sized room with machinery and fittings, and an entire house with sound. Probably the most costly mechanical musical instruments are made for Russians, and some of them give the effect of a whole orchestra. While the instrument in the traktir was in operation, both the youths said they could have easily believed the music to have been produced by a dozen skilled performers. As they left the Moskovski Traktir the guide suggested that they would go to the restaurant of the Old Believers. Fred thus describes the visit: "I must begin by saying that the Old Believers are a Russian sect who prefer the version of the Bible as it was up to the time of Nikon, rather than the one he introduced. The Government persecuted them greatly in past times, and even at present they are subjected to many restrictions. They are scattered through the Empire, and are said to number several millions, but the exact statistics concerning them are unattainable. "In addition to their adhesion to the old form of the Scriptures they abhor smoking, refuse to shave their beards, attach particular sanctity to old ecclesiastical pictures, and are inveterate haters of everything not thoroughly Russian. They despise the manners and customs of Western Europe, which they consider the synonyme of vices, and associate as little as possible with those who do not share their belief. In the country they form communities and villages by themselves, and in the cities they live in the same quarter as much as possible. They are an honest, industrious people, and thoroughly loyal subjects of the Emperor. "In the traktir of the Old Believers we found the waiters wearing dark caftans instead of white ones, and the room was filled with Russians of noticeably long beards. Smoking is not allowed here under any circumstances; and as nearly all Russians who are not Old Believers are confirmed smokers, this curious sect has the place all to itself. We were politely treated by the waiters, and, at the advice of the guide, ventured to eat a _blinni_, for which the place is famous. It was so good that we repeated the order. Of course we had the inevitable _samovar_, and found the tea the best that any restaurant has thus far supplied. This traktir has an excellent reputation for its tea and cookery; the bill of fare is not large, but everything is of the best kind. "There is a Tartar restaurant where horse-flesh is said to be served regularly; but whether this is true or not we did not try to find out. The place is kept by a Russian, so that the assertion is open to some doubt. Any one can go to the Tartar restaurant, but it is not frequented by Russians. The Tartars do not associate freely with the Russians, though there is no hostility between them. They seclude their wives after the Moslem fashion, and a Russian gentleman tells me that he has rarely had a glimpse of a Tartar woman, though he has lived near these people ever since he was born." [Illustration: TARTAR COFFEE-HOUSE IN SOUTHERN RUSSIA.] For a general view of Moscow our friends took a drive to the Sparrow Hills, the spot whence Napoleon took his first and also his last look upon the city he came so far to conquer. On the way thither they stopped at the Gardens, which are the property of the Galitsin family, and also at a small palace or villa which is the property of the Empress. These interruptions delayed them, so that it was near sunset when they reached the Sparrow Hills and had the city in full view. As they looked at the sunlight reflected from the hundreds of gilded domes, and the great city spread over the undulating ground, they realized what must have been the feelings of the French soldiers as they gazed upon Moscow after their long and perilous journey to the heart of Russia. There is still higher ground from which to look upon the city at the Simonoff Monastery, which has a belfry more than three hundred feet high. The monastery dates from 1390. It was once the most important church establishment in Russia, and possessed immense areas of land and as many as twelve thousand serfs. It was earnestly defended against the Poles in 1612, but was captured and plundered by them. It was a quarantine hospital in the plague of 1771, and a military one from 1788 to 1795. The French burned several of its buildings, but they were soon restored. The extent of the place will be understood when it is known that there are six churches inside the walls. Our friends passed some time there looking at the antique silver, gold, and other ornaments, and the costly vestments which have been handed down from ancient times. They climbed to the top of the belfry, and had a view of the city which they are not likely to forget immediately. The visit to the Simonoff Monastery was a preliminary to an excursion to the Troitska Monastery, which will be described in the next chapter. [Illustration: GALLERY IN THE PALACE.] CHAPTER XIV. A VISIT TO THE TROITSKA MONASTERY, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--CURIOUS LEGENDS.--MONKS AT DINNER.--EUROPEAN FAIRS.--THE GREAT FAIR AT NIJNI NOVGOROD.--SIGHTS AND SCENES.--MININ'S TOMB AND TOWER.--DOWN THE VOLGA BY STEAMBOAT.--STEAM NAVIGATION ON THE GREAT RIVER.--KAZAN, AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE.--THE ROUTE TO SIBERIA. The Troitska (Trinity) Monastery is about forty miles from Moscow, and reached by railway in little more than two hours. Our friends took an early start, intending to see the monastery and return the same day which is by no means difficult, as there are three trains each way every twenty-four hours. Fred had spent the previous evening in reading up the history of the place they were to visit. As soon as they were seated in the train he gave the following summary to his companions: "The monastery was founded in 1342 by St. Sergius, a son of a Russian nobleman of Rostof, who was famed for his intelligence and piety. The Princes of Muscovy used to ask his advice in their contests with the Tartars, as well as in other matters. Dmitry of the Don sought his blessing before going to the battle of Kulikova, where he defeated the Tartars; he was accompanied by two monks, disciples of Sergius, who fought by Dmitry's side during the memorable battle. In consideration of the great services thus rendered, the monastery received grants of land and became very rich. St. Sergius died in 1392, and it is said that he remained a simple monk to the last. "In 1408 the Tartars laid the monastery waste, and scattered the monks. They reassembled about fifteen years later, and the monastery was re-established. It has never since been recaptured, though it was besieged by thirty thousand Poles in 1608. The monks made a vigorous defence, and the siege was finally raised by a Russian force which came to their assistance. The French started from Moscow for the monastery in 1812, but only went about half way. The tradition is that the saint appeared miraculously, and covered the road leading to the monastery with such an array of soldiers in black that the French did not dare to attack them. "While the Poles were in possession of Moscow in 1612, the monastery aided the inhabitants with food and money. The Poles again sent an army to conquer the place, but it was repulsed by the monks without any assistance from the Russian soldiers. The plague and the cholera, which have both visited Moscow, have not entered Troitska, and consequently the place is much venerated for its sanctity. [Illustration: COPY OF PICTURE IN THE MONASTERY.] "There is a legend that when the saint first came to the spot he met a huge bear in the forest; the bear rushed forward to destroy him, but suddenly paused, and from that moment the saint and the bear were friends. For the rest of their days they lived together, and when the saint died the bear remained on the spot, and gave evidences of the most earnest grief. This story is implicitly believed by the orthodox Russians, and the gentleman from whose writings I have taken it says he heard it from the lips of a Russian lady, and narrated so artlessly that it would have been painful to have expressed any doubt of its truth." Other legends of the monastery, and incidents showing its prominence in Russian history, whiled away the time till the station at Troitska was reached. After a substantial breakfast at the railway-station, the party proceeded to the famous edifice, which is more like a fortress than a religious establishment. Its walls have a linear extent of nearly a mile; they are twenty feet thick, and vary in height from thirty to fifty feet. They would offer little obstruction to modern artillery, but it is easy to see that they could make a stout resistance to such cannon as the Poles possessed three centuries ago. There are towers at the angles, eight in all, and one of them is surmounted by an obelisk which bears a duck carved in stone, in remembrance of the fact that Peter the Great used to shoot ducks on a pond near the monastery. For what they saw at Troitska we will refer to Frank's journal: "There were crowds of beggars along the road from the railway-station to the gate of the monastery. It seems that the place is an object of pilgrimage from all parts of Russia, and the beggars reap a goodly harvest from those who come to pray at the shrine of the saint. Before the railway was opened, the high-road from Moscow seemed to pass through a double hedge of beggars, and the traveller was never out of hearing of their plaintive appeals for charity. [Illustration: WINDOW IN CHURCH OF THE TRINITY.] "We were cordially welcomed to the monastery, and one of the monks, who spoke French, accompanied us through the place. There are ten churches within the walls, the oldest being the Church of the Trinity, and the largest that of the Assumption. The shrine of St. Sergius is in the former. It is an elaborate piece of workmanship, of pure silver, weighing nine hundred and thirty-six pounds, and is so constructed that the relics of the saint are exposed. Near the shrine is a painting of the saint, that was carried in battle by Peter the Great and the Czar Alexis, and there is a record on a silver plate of other battles in which it was used. [Illustration: PITY THE POOR.] "There are other pictures of the saint displayed on the walls of the church. The whole interior of the building is covered with ornaments in massive silver and gold, and it is no wonder the French made an effort to plunder the monastery when they learned of the treasures it contained. There is a representation of the Last Supper, in which the figures are of solid gold, with the exception of the Judas, which is of brass. The images are covered with pearls and precious stones in great profusion. In some cases they are so thickly spread that the metal can hardly be seen. "In the Church of the Assumption is a two-headed eagle, which commemorates the concealment of Peter the Great under the altar during the insurrection of the streltzi. They showed us a well that was dug by St. Sergius, and discovered after its locality had been unknown for nearly three hundred years. Near the church is a tower two hundred and ninety feet high, and containing several bells, one of them weighing sixty-five tons. Russia is certainly the country of gigantic bells. "A description of all the churches at Troitska would be tedious, especially as we have spoken of the two of greatest interest. The sacristy is in a detached building, and contains more curiosities than I could describe in a dozen pages. There are mitres, crowns, crosses, and other ornaments that have been given to the monastery by the various rulers of Russia or by wealthy individuals, many of them set with jewels of remarkable size and beauty. A copy of the Gospels, given by the Czar Michael in 1632, is in heavy covers, ornamented with designs in enamel; in the centre of the design on the front cover is a cross made with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, and there is a similar though smaller cross on the back. "The robes worn by the priesthood are as numerous and costly as those we saw at Moscow, and so are the ornaments that accompany them. The pearl head-dress which Catherine II. wore at her coronation is preserved here, and serves as an ornament on a priestly robe. There is a crown presented by Elizabeth, and an altar-cloth from John the Terrible. And so we could go on through a long list of magnificent gifts from kings and emperors, and an equally long array of vestments worn by high dignitaries of the Church on state occasions. "The piety of the pilgrims is shown by their adoration, not of these jewelled crowns and diadems, but of the wooden utensils and coarse garments which belonged to the founder of the monastery. These relics are distributed among the glass cases which contain the costly mementos we have mentioned, with the evident intention of setting forth as clearly as possible the simple ways of his life. [Illustration: CURIOUS AGATE AT TROITSKA.] "One of the curiosities they showed us was a natural agate, in which there is the figure of a monk bowing before a cross. The cross is very clearly defined, and so is the cowled figure kneeling before it, though the latter would hardly be taken as representing anything in particular if regarded by itself. We examined it carefully to see if there was any deception about it, but could not detect it if there was. The monk, the cross, and the rock on which the cross stands appear to be wholly formed by the natural lines of the agate. The stone is about four inches high, and oval in shape; on one side it is rather dull and opaque, but it is bright on the other, and distinctly shows the eyes of the monk. [Illustration: PAPER-KNIFE FROM TROITSKA. ST. SERGIUS AND THE BEAR.] "The monks of Troitska wear black caftans topped with high black hats without brims; black veils hang down over their shoulders, and nearly every monk wears his hair as long as it will grow. We saw them at dinner in their refectory, where one of the number read the service while the rest went on with their eating and drinking; they were talking freely among themselves, and did not seem to listen at all to the reader. In general they appear to be well fed and cared for, and, so far as we could observe, their life is not a rigorous one. They offered carvings in wood, ivory, and mother-of-pearl, and we bought several of these things to bring away as curiosities. Among them was a paper-knife, with the handle representing St. Sergius and the bear in the forest. The work was well done, and the knife will make a pretty ornament for somebody's desk in America. "When we entered the refectory the monks invited us to dine with them, and we regretted that we had already breakfasted at the railway-station. There is a lodging-house for travellers attached to the monastery, and comparing favorably with a Russian hotel of the rural sort. Nothing is charged for the rooms, but the lodger who can afford it must pay for his food, and in addition he is expected to drop something into the contribution-box which the monks will show him before his departure. The cooking is said to be excellent, and the table as well supplied as any in Moscow. They have a pilgrim's table, where one may dine free of charge, but the food is simple and limited in quantity. "There is a studio of painting in the monastery, where the monks and their pupils, forty or fifty in all, were busily at work copying from religious subjects of both Greek and Latin origin. They are not confined to church paintings, as we saw portraits of the Emperor and other members of the Imperial family, and several battle-scenes in which Russian arms have figured. There is a very good painting representing the attack of the Poles upon the monastery, and another illustrating the defence of Sebastopol during the Crimean War. [Illustration: SPECIMENS OF ECCLESIASTICAL PAINTING ON GLASS.] "The monastery was enormously rich at one time, not only in the treasures it possessed, but in grants of land and serfs which had been given by the Government. In 1764 it had one hundred and six thousand male serfs, and its lands covered many thousands of acres. Though losing its serfs, it has not been without compensation, and the monastery is handsomely supported, partly by an annual donation from the Government, and partly by the gifts of pious Russians." Doctor Bronson and the youths returned to Moscow in the evening, as they had planned, and on the next day made their preparations for continuing their journey. Their next place of destination was Nijni Novgorod, where they wished to attend the great fair, which was then in progress. They decided to go by the express train, which leaves Moscow in the evening and reaches Nijni Novgorod in the morning. The distance is about two hundred and seventy miles, and there is very little to see on the way. [Illustration: RUSSIAN COOPER'S SHOP AND DWELLING.] The only place of consequence between Moscow and Nijni is Vladimir, named after Vladimir the Great. It has about fifteen thousand inhabitants, and is the centre of a considerable trade. Anciently it was of much political importance, and witnessed the coronations of the Czars of Muscovy down to 1432. Its Kremlin is in a decayed state, and little remains of its former glory, except a venerable and beautiful cathedral. Our friends thought they could get along with the churches they had already seen, and declined to stop to look at the Cathedral of Vladimir. On arriving at Nijni they were met at the station by a commissioner from the Hotel de la Poste, to which they had telegraphed for rooms. In the time of the fair it is necessary to secure accommodations in advance if one is intending to remain more than a single day. Tourists who are in a hurry generally come from Moscow by the night train, spend the day at Nijni, and return to Moscow the same evening. Thus they have no use for a hotel, as they can take their meals at the railway-station or in the restaurants on the fair grounds. "This is practically the last of the great fairs of Europe," said the Doctor to his young companions as the train rolled out of Moscow. "Leipsic still maintains its three fairs every year, but they have greatly changed their character since the establishment of railways. They are more local than general, and one does not see people from all parts of Europe, as was the case forty or fifty years ago. The fairs of France and Germany have dwindled to insignificance, and now the only really great fair where Europe and Asia meet is the one we are about to visit." Frank asked how long these fairs had been in existence. "Fairs are of very ancient origin," the Doctor replied; "that of Leipsic can be distinctly traced for more than six hundred years. The word 'fair' comes from the Latin _feria_, meaning day of rest, or holiday, and the fairs for the sale of goods were and still are generally connected with religious festivals. The Greeks and Romans had fairs before the Christian era; fairs were established in France in the fifth century and in England in the ninth, and they were common in Germany about the beginning of the eleventh century, when they were principally devoted to the sale of slaves. "Coming down with a single bound to the great fair of Russia, we find that there was an annual gathering of merchants at Nijni more than five hundred years ago. Long before that time there was a fair in Kazan, then under Tartar rule, but Russian merchants were prohibited from going there by order of John the Terrible. The fair of Nijni was removed to Makarieff, seventy miles down the river, in 1641, where it remained a long time. The monks of Makarieff controlled the fair until 1751, when it passed into the hands of the Government, and has remained there ever since. "The fair at Makarieff was held on low ground near the town. Owing to an inundation in 1816, the Government restored the fair to Nijni, and decreed that it should be held annually between the 27th of July and the 22d of September. The ordinary population of Nijni is about forty thousand; two hundred and fifty thousand merchants, laborers, and others come to the fair, so that for two months of the year nearly three hundred thousand people are assembled here." "How are they all accommodated with lodgings and food?" one of the youths asked. [Illustration: NIJNI NOVGOROD DURING THE FAIR.] "The permanent town of Nijni Novgorod," said the Doctor, "is separated from Fair-town, if we may so call it, by the River Oka, which here joins the Volga. The fair is held on a tongue of land between the Volga and the Oka, and Fair-town and Nijni proper are connected by bridges of boats. It is a regular town or city, built for the purposes of trade. It has its governor, police force, fire brigade, and all the paraphernalia of a city, and the Government collects by means of a tax about fifty thousand dollars for the support of the organization." "Then it is a city with a busy population for two months of the year, and a deserted town for the other ten?" [Illustration: NIJNI NOVGOROD AFTER THE FAIR.] "Exactly so," was the reply; "Fair-town at Nijni in season and out of season will remind you of the difference between Coney Island or Long Branch in July and in January. "We'll drop the subject till to-morrow," said the Doctor, and with this suggestion the conversation was suspended. On their arrival at Nijni, where they expected to remain two or three days, the party went to the hotel as already stated, and then made a hasty survey of the stock sights of the place. They saw the Kremlin, which is a place of considerable strength, and contains the Governor's residence, the military barracks, law-courts, telegraph station, and other public buildings. There is a fine monument to Minin and Pojarsky, and in a church not far off is the tomb of the patriotic cattle-dealer. Our friends climbed to the top of Minin's Tower (_Bashnia Minina_), where they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country, including the valleys of the Volga and Oka for a long distance, the permanent town and its Kremlin, the site of the fair, with its miles of streets, and its thousands of boats and barges tied to the river-bank. Frank recalled the view from the hill near Hankow, at the junction of the Han and Yang-tse in China, and pointed out many features of similarity. Fred said he was reminded of the junction of the Ganges and Jumna at Allahabad, and an appeal to the Doctor brought out a reference to the union of the Alleghany and Monongahela at Pittsburg. The permanent town was quickly disposed of, as the youths were impatient to inspect the great fair. For an account of what they saw we will again refer to their journals. "What a cloud of dust there is here," said Frank, "and they say the dust turns to mud, and deep mud, too, after a heavy rain. They make a pretence of watering the streets when the weather is dry, but the work is not very well done; and besides, the vast number of people walking about keeps the ground in very active occupation. "Nearly all the houses are of brick or iron, and great care is taken to prevent fires. The lower stories of the houses are used for shops, and the upper for storage, or for the residence of those who have hired the buildings. The sewerage system is said to be excellent, the sewers being flushed several times daily by water pumped from the river. "The Governor's house is in the centre of this fair-town. Under it is a bazaar for the sale of goods from all parts of Europe and Asia, and we naturally took this house for the centre of trade. Along the streets and avenues there are shops of all kinds, and we seemed to be in the bazaars of all the Oriental countries we have ever visited, together with the shops and stores of all the Western ones. The list of the goods we saw would almost be a list of all the articles of trade throughout the civilized and uncivilized world, and we hesitate to begin. Name anything that you want to buy and the guide will take you to where it is sold. "The mode of dealing is more Oriental than Occidental, as the merchants in any particular kind of goods are clustered together as in the bazaars of the East. For a mile or more there are warehouses filled only with iron, and very judiciously they are on the bank of the river, to save labor in handling and transportation. The tea-merchants are together, and so are the dealers in Bokharian cotton, Tartar sheepskins, Siberian furs, and other things on the long list we do not intend to write out in full. "Restaurants of every name and kind are here, good, bad, and indifferent. The best is under the Governor's house, and we recommend it to any of our friends who follow in our footsteps and visit Nijni. There are Russian, Armenian, and Catholic churches, and there are mosques and pagodas, so that every visitor may suit himself in religious matters. "As for the people we confess to some disappointment. The great majority are Russians, as a matter of course, but it is rather greater than we had looked for. We had thought we would see all the countries of Asia represented by their national dress, together with English, French, Germans, and other people of Western Europe. All were there, it is true, but not in the numbers we had expected. [Illustration: TARTAR MERCHANT.] "Kirghese, Bokhariots, Turcomans, and other people of Central Asia, were to be seen here and there, and so were Kalmuck Tartars, Armenians, Persians, and an occasional Chinese. But sometimes we could walk around for an hour or so without seeing anybody but Russians, or hearing any language except the one to which we have become accustomed since our arrival at St. Petersburg. [Illustration: RETURNING FROM THE FAIR.] "We bought a few souvenirs of the place; but, so far as we could observe, the prices were quite as high as in the Gostinna Dvor of St. Petersburg or Moscow. It requires a great deal of bargaining, and a knowledge of prices beforehand, to avoid being cheated, and even then you can never be sure that you are fairly treated. The mode of dealing is emphatically Oriental, and a great deal of time is spent in dickering. Nobody seems to understand the advantages of fixed prices. "It is said that the annual business at the fair of Nijni Novgorod amounts to three hundred millions of dollars, though it has somewhat diminished of late years. Much of the dealing is on credit, the goods being delivered at one fair and paid for at the next. Over a pot of tea transactions will be made that cover many thousands of dollars, and neither party has a scrap of paper to show for them. Collections through the courts would be next to an impossibility, and therefore personal honor is at a high premium. The merchant who fails to meet his engagements would be excluded from the fair, and thus deprived of the means of making new negotiations. "The Government requires the bakers to report each day the amount of bread they have sold, and thus a rough estimate of the number of people present is obtained. "There are two other fairs held at Nijni, but they are of comparatively little consequence. One, early in July, is devoted to horses; the other, in January, is for the sale of timber, wooden-ware, and boxes. The latter is held on the ice of the Oka. In January, 1864, the ice gave way and a great number of people and horses were drowned." Two or three days were spent at the fair, and then our friends engaged passage on a steamboat to descend the Volga. The youths were surprised at the number and size of the steamers navigating this river, and still more surprised to find that many of them were of American pattern. The first passenger steamers on the Volga were built by Americans, and were found so well adapted to the work required of them that the system has been continued. Some of the boats are of the Mississippi model, while others resemble those of the Hudson River. At first they had only side-wheel steamers, but in the last few years several light-draft stern-wheelers have been built (also by Americans) and found especially useful in threading among the numerous sand-bars at the period of low water. Many boats of great power are used for towing barges up and down the river, and find plenty of employment during all the time the Volga is free from ice. Altogether, about five hundred steamboats of all classes are engaged in the navigation of the Volga. It is sixteen hundred miles from Nijni to Astrachan, and the voyage usually takes five or six days. The boats do not run at night, on account of the difficulty of navigation, which is worse than that of the Lower Mississippi, and more like the Missouri than any other American stream. The fare (first class) on the best steamers is about twenty-five dollars, exclusive of meals, which will cost from twelve to twenty dollars more. Competition occasionally reduces the figures considerably, but, as a general thing, the Russians are too shrewd to conduct their business at a loss in order to injure that of a rival. "We are on a fine boat, which reminds me of the very one that carried us from St. Louis to Memphis," writes Fred in his journal. "She is called the _Nadeshda_ ("Hope"); and that reminds me it was the _Hope_ on which I went from Memphis to Natchez, when Frank and I travelled down the Mississippi. Her captain speaks English, the steward speaks French, and we have learned enough Russian to get along very well with the servants without the aid of an interpreter. The cabins are large, clean, and comfortable, and altogether we expect to make a comfortable voyage. "We left Nijni about noon, and the captain says we shall be twenty-four hours getting to Kazan, where he will stop long enough for us to see the place. As I write, we are passing Makarieff, formerly the seat of the great fair, but now of little importance. "There are many boats and barges floating with the current in addition to the huge tows which are managed by the steamboats. The captain says that before steam navigation was introduced there was a great deal of towing by horse-power; and how do you suppose it was done? [Illustration: LAUNCHING A RUSSIAN BARGE.] "There was an immense barge, with powerful windlasses or capstans, which were operated by horses walking in a circle as in the old-fashioned cider-mills. A huge cable, all the way from a quarter of a mile to two miles in length, would be sent up stream, and either anchored in the channel or fastened to a tree on shore. When all was ready the horses were set in motion, and the towing-barge, with all the boats and barges attached to it, slowly ascended against the current. Progress was very slow, but it was safe, as there was no danger from exploding boilers or overheated furnaces. As many as two hundred horses were sometimes employed by single barges. [Illustration: TARTAR VILLAGE NEAR THE VOLGA.] "Our captain says that back from the river are many villages of Cheramess, a people of Tartar origin, who preserve many of their ancient customs. They are loyal subjects of the Government, and in nearly all their cottages one will find the portraits of the Emperor and Empress. In accordance with their custom of veiling women, they hang a piece of thin gauze over the portrait of the Empress. "The summer road between Kazan and Nijni is on the south bank of the river; the winter road is on the ice, and is marked with green boughs placed in a double row, so that the road cannot be missed. These boughs are placed by the Administration of Roads, and no one can travel on the ice of the river until it has been officially declared safe. The south bank is quite abrupt, while on the north the country frequently stretches off in a level for a long distance. Most of the towns along the banks are said to have been founded by John the Terrible in his expedition for the capture of Kazan. "We reached Kazan as promised soon after noon, and had the rest of the day for seeing the place. We were all ready when the boat touched the shore, and were off as soon as we secured a carriage. The city is about five miles from the river, but we found the drive to it not at all uninteresting. We passed through a suburb where a mosque and a church standing close together symbolized the friendly relations between the Russian and Tartar inhabitants. "Kazan is a handsome city with about sixty thousand inhabitants, of whom one-third are Tartars. We drove through the Tartar quarter, and found it very much like the Russian, with the exception of the people in the streets and the signs on the shops. The buildings have the same general appearance, and were probably built by Russian architects. John the Terrible destroyed a large part of the city soon after its capture. He levelled everything in the Kremlin, including the tombs of the Tartar kings, and since his day the city has been swept by fire no less than three times. Consequently there is very little of the ancient architecture; a portion of the Tartar wall of the Kremlin remains, and that is about all. "Kazan is famous for its manufactures of leather, soap, candles, and other things, and there are said to be nearly two hundred factories in and around the city. It is specially celebrated for its tanneries, and annually turns out large quantities of 'Russia leather.' [Illustration: TARTAR BAKER'S SHOP.] "We hadn't time to visit the University of Kazan, which has about five hundred students, and ranks first in the Empire for instruction in Oriental languages and literature. It has Persian, Arabic, Chinese, and other Oriental professors, and we were told that a student might study any one of twenty-six languages within its walls. "Of course we could not neglect the cathedral, where is preserved a miraculous picture, which was found unscathed in the midst of the ashes after a great conflagration. On its head is a diamond crown, presented by Catherine II. Near the town is a pyramidal monument in memory of those who fell during the siege and capture of the city. "Just at dusk we returned to the _Nadeshda_, where we found a substantial supper waiting for us, and made the acquaintance of a fellow-countryman, Mr. Hegeman, who was to be our companion for the remainder of the voyage. He was familiar with Russia, having lived in the country nearly twenty years, and travelled in all parts of it. He was well informed on every subject, and gave us a great amount of valuable statistics and descriptions. We talked until quite late in the evening; and when he joined us at breakfast the next morning the boat was steaming down the Volga and nearing the mouth of the Kama, where several passengers were to leave us. "'They are going to Perm,' said the captain of the _Nadeshda_, 'and some of them are on the way to Siberia.' "We asked if this was the way to Siberia, and the captain explained that it was one of the routes. 'Steamers ascend the Kama to Perm,' said he, 'and from Perm there is a railway to Ekaterineburg, which is on the Siberian side of the Ural Mountains. The line has been extended to Tumen, three hundred miles farther, and ultimately it will be pushed on till it reaches Irkutsk, on the shores of Lake Baikal, and close to the frontier of China.' "How we wished we could make the journey through Siberia! Over the Ural Mountains, across the Steppes, down the Amoor, and out into the waters of the Pacific Ocean! What a magnificent tour, and what strange things to see on the way! "Mr. Hegeman heard our wish, and said he would tell us all about the trip across Siberia as soon as we were under way again. As the _Nadeshda_ steamed down the Volga he gave us an account, which we have tried to preserve as nearly as possible in his own words." CHAPTER XV. AVATCHA BAY, IN KAMTCHATKA.--ATTACK UPON PETROPAVLOVSK BY THE ALLIED FLEET.--DOGS AND DOG-DRIVING.--RAPID TRAVELLING WITH A DOG-TEAM.--POPULATION AND RESOURCES OF KAMTCHATKA.--REINDEER AND THEIR USES.--THE AMOOR RIVER.--NATIVE TRIBES AND CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--TIGERS IN SIBERIA.--NAVIGATION OF THE AMOOR.--OVERLAND TRAVELLING IN SIBERIA.--RIDING IN A TARANTASSE.--A ROUGH ROAD.--AN AMUSING MISTAKE.--FROM STRATENSK TO NERTCHINSK.--GOLD-MINING IN SIBERIA. "My first visit to the Russian Empire," said Mr. Hegeman, "was made from San Francisco across the Pacific Ocean. I sailed out of the Golden Gate in the direction of Kamtchatka, and after a voyage of thirty days we sighted the summit of Avatcha Mountain, a magnificent volcano that serves as a landmark to vessels approaching Avatcha Bay. This bay is one of the finest I have ever seen. I do not think it surpassed by the famous bays of Naples or Rio Janeiro." [Illustration: A SIBERIAN VILLAGE.] Doctor Bronson nodded assent to Mr. Hegeman's opinion. He had been in Avatcha Bay, which he briefly described to the youths while Mr. Hegeman was lighting a cigar. [Illustration: PETROPAVLOVSK, KAMTCHATKA.--MOUNT AVATCHA IN BACKGROUND.] "It is about ten miles across, and nearly circular," said the Doctor, "and its entrance from the ocean is nearly a mile in width. Avatcha Mountain is directly in front of the entrance, so that a navigator entering the bay has little more to do than steer straight towards the volcano and keep his vessel midway between the two sides of the entrance. Around the bay there are six or eight little harbors, completely landlocked. On one of these harbors is Petropavlovsk (Port of St. Peter and St. Paul), the principal place of trade in Kamtchatka. Once it had a population of two or three thousand. It was attacked by the allied fleets in the Crimean War, and suffered severely. After the war the naval headquarters were removed to Nicolayevsk, at the mouth of the Amoor." [Illustration: A HERD OF REINDEER.] "There is an interesting bit of history connected with the attack upon Petropavlovsk," Mr. Hegeman remarked, as the Doctor paused. "In the autumn of 1854 a combined fleet of six English and French ships attacked Petropavlovsk, and were twice beaten off by some land batteries and a Russian frigate moored in the harbor. Their commanders determined to make an assault by land with a strong force of sailors and marines. They attempted to take the town in the rear, but the Russian sharp-shooters created a panic among them, and drove the assailants over a steep bank about two hundred feet high. "The English admiral committed suicide in consequence of his disappointment, and the fleet sailed away. Next year seventeen ships came there together, as the allies had determined to conquer the town at all hazards. The Russians abandoned the place and retired over the hills, but they left five or six hundred dogs behind them. The allied fleet remained at anchor for an entire day without venturing to land, as it was supposed that there must be a very large garrison to keep so many dogs." "The baying of the dogs kept them at bay," whispered Frank to Fred. "Yes," replied the latter, "kept them anchored in the bay." "There was only one man, an American merchant, in the place when the allies landed. He remained to protect his own property, and had the American flag above his establishment. The allies burned all of the Government buildings and stores, but did not injure anything else." Frank asked how they happened to have so many dogs in a small place like this. "Dogs are the beasts of burden of the country," was the reply, "and without them the people would have much difficulty in getting about. The dogs of Kamtchatka are much like the Eskimo dogs in appearance, character, and qualities, and are employed for the same purposes. They draw sledges over the snow and ice in winter, and are capable of great speed and endurance. With a light load they can travel fifty miles a day for a week or more, and on some occasions they have been known to make a single trip of one hundred miles and more without resting. They are harnessed in pairs with a leader, and a team consists of anywhere from three to twenty-one dogs. A great deal depends on the leader, and he is always chosen from among the most intelligent of the dogs. An ordinary dog is worth from five to ten dollars, while a leader readily brings from forty to fifty dollars. [Illustration: DOG TEAMS AND REINDEER.] "The best travelling I ever heard of with a dog-team," continued Mr. Hegeman, "was when a courier was sent to carry to Petropavlovsk the announcement of the Crimean War. Without changing teams he went from Boltcheresk to Petropavlovsk (one hundred and twenty-five miles) in twenty-three hours!" One of the youths asked what the dogs lived upon. "They live almost entirely upon fish," was the reply, "and they eat it in any condition--fresh, dried, or half decayed. Salmon are very abundant in Kamtchatka, and the cheapest thing for feeding the dogs. One fish a day is the ordinary allowance for a dog; but while he is on a journey he receives only half his usual ration. The natives all say that these animals travel better half fed than when fully nourished, and many persons do not give them anything whatever for an entire day before they are to start on a journey." Many anecdotes about the dogs of Kamtchatka were given, and Frank and Fred were so interested in the subject that they forgot to note down what was said. When questioned about it afterwards, Frank said he learned that it requires much experience to drive a dog-team; that the man who is to drive must feed his own dogs and make them know he is their master; that they will run away whenever they have the opportunity; and they have a treacherous, thieving disposition. They are brave in large numbers, but always cowardly when alone. Epidemics among them are frequent, and sometimes whole tribes of natives are thus deprived of their dogs and unable to move about. "For further canine particulars," said Frank, "we refer you to 'The Voyage of the _Vivian_ to the North Pole and Beyond.' The youths who made that remarkable journey had considerable practical experience with dogs, and they personally visited Kamtchatka on their way to the Pole." "Kamtchatka has about seven thousand inhabitants altogether," said Mr. Hegeman. "Twelve or fifteen hundred are Russians, and the rest belong to aboriginal tribes. They are chiefly engaged in hunting and fishing; there is very little agriculture in the country, as the climate is too cold to permit the cultivation of grain or garden vegetables. Kamtchatka is chiefly useful for its fur products. Five or six thousand sables are killed there every year, and considerable numbers of ermine, foxes, and other fur-bearing animals. Bears are numerous and dangerous, and so are wolves, which are very fierce in winter, though not at all troublesome in the summer-time. Earthquakes are not unfrequent in Kamtchatka, but they do little damage, and are looked upon more as amusements than anything else. [Illustration: LIGHT-HOUSE AT GHIJIGHA.] "From Kamtchatka I went in a ship to Ghijigha, on the Okhotsk Sea," continued Mr. Hegeman. "Ghijigha is very much like Petropavlovsk, and has the same sort of population--a mixture of Cossacks, peasants, and natives. It is at the head of a narrow bay, and its light-house is nothing more than an octagonal hut with a fire on the roof. Many of the inhabitants are the descendants of exiles who were sent to the country down to about the middle of this century. [Illustration: ERMINE-TRAP.] "In the time of Catherine the Great, many Poles were sent to Kamtchatka, and it is a curious circumstance that the first voyage from that country to a foreign port was made under the Polish flag. Several Poles seized a small ship in the harbor and put to sea. They had no nautical knowledge, and no instruments for navigation, but managed to reach Loo Choo, and afterwards the port of Macao, in safety. "At Ghijigha there were more dogs and more fish. I had my choice to go by land to the mouth of the Amoor River, or by sea. I chose the latter course; if I had gone by land I should have divided my time between riding on reindeer, riding after dogs, or going on foot." Fred thought it would be very nice to ride on a reindeer, and earnestly wished he could try it. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A NATIVE HOUSE.] "I think a very short trial would satisfy you," replied Mr. Hegeman; "at any rate it was enough for me. You have a saddle which is simply a pad without stirrups, and must maintain your balance by means of a stick that you rest on the ground as the animal walks. An inexperienced man falls off a dozen times an hour for the first few days, and even old travellers get a good many tumbles in the course of twenty-four hours. The saddle is directly over the shoulders of the beast, as it would break his back if placed where we ordinarily put the saddle on a horse. Consequently you are shaken at every footstep--an excellent thing for a dyspeptic, but not agreeable to a man in good health. [Illustration: THE REINDEER.] "Between the Okhotsk Sea and the Arctic Ocean the wealth of the country is in reindeer. Some natives own as many as forty thousand of these animals, and herds of a thousand or more are not at all rare. The natives wander from place to place in search of pasturage. In summer the deer eat the mosses and shrubbery that spring up all over the country, and in winter they scrape away the snow to feed on the moss beneath it. The native uses the reindeer to ride upon or to draw his sledge; he eats the flesh of the animal, and makes clothing and tent-covering of his skin. In fact he cannot get along without the reindeer any more than could the native of Newfoundland exist without the codfish. "But I was willing to let the natives have a monopoly of the reindeer for riding purposes, and took passage in a ship for the Amoor River. "The Amoor is the greatest river of Siberia, and flows into the Pacific Ocean. It is navigable twenty-three hundred miles from its mouth, and receives several important streams from the south. In one part of its course it makes a great bend to the south, where it flows through magnificent forests containing several trees peculiar to the tropics. The tiger roams up to the south bank of the river at this point, and the reindeer comes down to it on the north; occasionally the tiger crosses the river and feeds upon the reindeer--the only place in the world where these two animals come together naturally." "What a funny idea!" exclaimed Frank. "To think of tigers in Siberia!" "Tigers are found elsewhere in Siberia," continued their informant. "In the museum at Barnaool, in the Altai Mountains, I saw the skins of two large tigers that were killed in a Siberian farm-yard not far from that place, where they had come to kill one of the farmer's oxen. Tiger-hunting is a regular sport with the Russian officers in that part of Manjouria belonging to Siberia, and over a considerable part of the region bordering upon China and Persia. But to return to the Amoor. [Illustration: FISH-MARKET AT NICOLAYEVSK.] "I remained several days at Nicolayevsk, the capital of the Maritime Province of Siberia, and a place of considerable importance. From there I ascended the river on a Russian steamboat, passing through the country of several tribes of people. There were Goldees, Gilyaks, and Manyargs, and others whose names would be like Greek to you, and therefore I will not bother you to remember them. They live by hunting and fishing, and have permanent villages on the banks of the river, in places where the fishing is best. In the fishing season they always have large quantities of fish hung out to dry, and consequently you can generally smell a native village before you see it. [Illustration: SCENERY ON THE AMOOR.] "The boat landed near a Gilyak village, and I went to see how the natives lived. They were not particularly civil; in fact they hardly recognized our presence, but kept at work in the preparation of the morning's catch of fish as though nobody was looking on. There were a dozen or more wolfish-looking dogs, and we came near being bitten by the brutes. The natives made a pretence of driving the dogs off, but were not half as earnest as we were on the subject. [Illustration: GILYAK WOMAN.] [Illustration: GILYAK MAN.] "They have some interesting customs and superstitions. They are pagans in religious matters, and worship idols and animals, and they have a reverence for the tiger, eagle, bear, and cat. They keep eagles in cages, and when they can catch a bear or tiger they use him for a religious ceremony, which ends with the animal being slaughtered. His flesh is eaten under the impression that it gives strength and courage to the eaters. They will not allow fire to be carried out of their houses, through fear of evil consequences, and they formerly had the custom of killing those who came to visit them. The more amiable he was, the greater was the chance of his being murdered." Fred asked how it could be explained. "Very easily, when you know the reason," was the reply. "They believe that the spirits of the dead remain where they left the body, and guard and protect the spot. When a man whom they liked was about to leave, they did not hesitate to kill him for the sake of retaining his spirit among them. A Russian priest was killed in this way, and the Government made the Gilyaks understand that they must put an end to the practice. [Illustration: NATIVE BOAT--AMOOR RIVER.] "The Gilyaks have small fields and gardens, and do a little agriculture, but their great reliance is upon the river, which supplies them with fish for food and clothing." "How can fish supply clothing?" Frank asked, with a look of surprise. "Easily enough," was the reply. "The Gilyaks and other people of the Amoor take the skins of fishes, beat them till the scales fall off, dress them with oil till they are pliable, and then fashion them into garments. I have seen some very good coats and jackets made of fish-skins. The prettiest Gilyak girl I saw (and she had no great beauty to boast of) wore a coat of fish-skin that was gathered closely in at the neck and held around the waist by a girdle. A few yards away you couldn't distinguish it from cloth. [Illustration: GOLDEE CHILDREN.] "The Gilyaks row their boats by pulling alternately on the oars, while the Goldees, who are higher up the river, pull the oars simultaneously. The houses of the Goldees are superior in every way to those of the Gilyaks. They are warmed by means of wooden pipes passing beneath benches on three sides of the room, and serving as seats by day and beds at night. Like the Gilyaks, the Goldees live chiefly by fishing, but they give more attention to agriculture, and many of them have cows and horses. One day we passed a village where a large fleet of boats was engaged in fishing for salmon and sturgeon. Two men tried a race with the steamboat, and fairly beat us for a short distance, though we were making nine or ten miles against the current. "The Russians have established villages along the Amoor at intervals of twenty or thirty miles, where the steamboats are supplied with wood. Some of these villages are close to the native ones, and the people live in perfect harmony. At one of our stopping-places I suggested that I would like to see the inside of a Goldee house, and the captain kindly accompanied me to the native village. [Illustration: A GOLDEE MAN AND WOMAN.] "Guided by a Russian peasant, we picked our way among the drying fish, and reached the door. It was quite late in the evening, and all the people had gone to sleep. With some difficulty we roused the owner of the place, and persuaded him to admit us. Our guide carried a torch of birch bark, and as he held it aloft the sight revealed to us was a strange one. "Twenty or thirty persons were asleep on the benches, or huddled together to stare at the intruders. The captain explained that the Goldees keep their houses very warm, and sleep with little clothing; and certainly it did not seem as if the whole party had bedding enough for one-quarter their number. There was a smouldering fire in the middle of the room, a large kettle, set in brickwork, was at one side, and the rafters were hung with nets and fishing implements. A vicious-looking dog stood growling in front of us, and needed only a word from his master to turn his growls into bites. I had no inclination to stay long, particularly as the atmosphere was by no means pure, and it did not seem exactly polite to rouse a gentleman in the night and compel him to open his house simply to gratify a stranger's curiosity. "For a thousand miles or more the Amoor forms the dividing line between Russia and China, the former country being on the northern bank, and the latter on the southern. There is a Chinese town of some twenty thousand inhabitants at one point, and smaller towns and villages both above and below it. "The whole valley of the Amoor was in the possession of the Chinese until 1853, when it was conquered by the Russians in a campaign that lasted less than two months, and was unaccompanied with loss of life. General Mouravieff, then Governor-general of Eastern Siberia, organized an expedition and sent it down the river in boats. The Chinese were wholly unprepared for it, and the Russians had everything their own way. Then colonists were sent to form the villages I have mentioned, and Russia was so firmly established that she could not be disturbed. "And now, as you have doubtless studied the geography of Asia, will you tell me how the Amoor is formed?" [Illustration: INAUGURATION OF GENGHIS KHAN.] "Certainly," answered Fred. "It is formed by the rivers Argoon and Shilka, just as the Ohio is formed by the Alleghany and Monongahela. The Argoon comes in from the south, and the Shilka from the north. Genghis Khan was born in the valley of the Argoon, and the armies that went to the Tartar conquest of Europe were originally mustered on the banks of that stream." [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE ARGOON AND SHILKA TO FORM THE AMOOR.] "The answer is correct," was the reply. "The spot where the rivers unite is called '_Oust-strelka_' ("Arrow-mouth"), owing to the shape of the tongue of land between the streams. The scenery is interesting, as the banks of the Argoon are steep, and the hills as far as one can see them are covered to their summits with dense forests. "Our steamboat turned into the Shilka, and, after making a few unimportant landings, finished its voyage at Stratensk, twenty-three hundred miles above Nicolayevsk. The river voyage was at an end, and from this point to St. Petersburg was a land journey of five thousand miles. Horse-power was to be my mode of conveyance for more than four thousand miles--a prospect by no means pleasant. "It was about the middle of October when I arrived at Stratensk, and bade farewell to river navigation in Siberia. By the advice of Russian friends I planned to go to Irkutsk, the capital of Eastern Siberia, before the snows fell, and there wait for the winter roads to become good enough for sledging. "Irkutsk is about fourteen hundred miles from Stratensk, and there is a good wagon-road--at least it is called good in Siberia--connecting the two points. The road makes a detour around the southern end of Lake Baikal, and quite a distance is saved by crossing the lake on a steamer. I was told that I might have to wait a day or two to connect with the steamer, as it is not very regular in its movements. "I had made the acquaintance of a Russian officer while ascending the Amoor, and long before reaching Stratensk it was arranged that we would travel together to the first provincial capital, where I intended stopping a few days. There I hoped to find some one else who was going in my direction, and thus would have the advantages of the companionship of some one who knew the language, and also to share the expense. It costs no more for two persons than for one, as the hire of horses and carriages is just the same, exactly as when you hire a cab in London or New York. [Illustration: SCENE IN A POSTING STATION.] "From one end of Siberia to the other there is a post-road, with stations from ten to twenty miles apart, and there are similar roads leading from the great route to the towns north and south. A traveller must have a _paderojnia_, or road-pass, which he obtains from the Chief of Police at his starting-point. He pays at the rate of half a cent a mile for this road-pass, and it entitles him to the number of horses named in the document. For these horses he pays a rate fixed by law, usually two cents a mile for each horse. Ordinarily a traveller can get along comfortably with two horses, but if the roads are bad, three, and sometimes more, are necessary." Frank asked if the horses must be paid for at the time the paderojnia is taken. "Not at all," was the reply. "The money is paid at each station to the _smotretal_, or station-master. It is paid in advance, or may be given to the driver at the end of the ride." "A stranger must run a great risk of being cheated," said Fred; "the station-master could make the distance out much greater than it really is, and thus turn a dishonest penny very often." "By no means can he do so," Mr. Hegeman answered, "if the stranger is on his guard. At every station there is an official certificate framed and hung up, showing the distance to the next station in both directions; the most enterprising efforts of the smotretal to cheat the traveller can be frustrated by a study of this document. "And now for the means of conveyance," continued Mr. Hegeman. "Every station is required to keep a certain number of horses and drivers, and it must also have a stipulated number of wheeled carriages for summer, and sledges for winter use. The wheeled carriage is called a _telega_; it is a rough sort of a wagon on wooden springs, and gives a great deal of jolting to the mile. A ride of a thousand miles in a telega may be guaranteed to cure a very bad case of dyspepsia or kill the patient, and in some cases it might do both. The horses are driven at a breakneck speed, and the traveller finds himself tossed from side to side till he is bruised like a rolled orange. The telega is changed, along with the horses, at every station; the traveller and his baggage must be transferred, as the carriage and horses return to the station whence they came." "It must be very disagreeable to make these changes," remarked one of the youths, "especially at night or in a storm." [Illustration: A TARANTASSE.] "It is, indeed," was the reply; "and to obviate this the Russians have a vehicle called a _tarantasse_, which is larger, better made, and in every way more comfortable than the telega. A traveller going on a long journey, and able to afford the expense, buys a tarantasse at starting, and sells it at the end of his ride. He thus avoids the necessity of changing at every station; and if he has a servant to attend to the payments and other matters, he can sleep through the night with comparative comfort. "We started from Stratensk in a telega, as we could not find a tarantasse for sale or hire, and changed at the next station. Luckily for us, the smotretal had a tarantasse, which we hired as far as Stratensk, about sixty miles from our starting-point. It was old, and somewhat rickety, but it was better than nothing at all, and we gladly engaged it. "There are three classes of paderojnia for the Russian post-roads. The highest is for Government couriers and great officials; the second for officials not on Government business; and the third for civilian travellers. My companion had a courier's pass, while I had a paderojnia of the second class; consequently his was the best to use. "A traveller with a courier's pass is never detained for want of horses, while others must take their chances. The second-class passport takes precedence over the third, and in a very summary way at times. "Suppose Smith has a second-class paderojnia, and Jones one of the third class. Smith reaches a station and finds Jones with a team ready to start. If there are no more horses, the station-master detaches Jones's horses and gives them to Smith; Jones must wait until he can be supplied; it may be an hour, a day, or a week. [Illustration: CHANGING HORSES AT A SIBERIAN STATION.] "Three horses must always be kept ready for couriers, and the changes made very quickly. If all the horses belonging to a station are out when a lower-class traveller arrives, he must wait till a team returns and has rested. If he is willing to pay something extra rather than wait, he can be accommodated; the smotretal will obtain horses from the villagers at whatever advance on the regular price that he thinks the traveller will stand. Here is where the station-master has a chance to make something, and he usually makes it. "The horses are small and shaggy, but they are capable of great speed and endurance. They are never blanketed, even in the coldest weather, and their hair is thick and soft like the fur of a fox. Sometimes they kept up a steady gallop from one station to another, and did not seem to suffer by the speed. Frequently they travelled ten miles an hour, and when we were going down hill they did better than that. The way to go from one hill to another is to dash down the slope and across the level at full gallop, and thus obtain an impetus for mounting the next. Many of the hollows have corduroy bridges over the little streams that flow through them, and when we crossed these bridges at full gallop the tarantasse or telega received a very lively shaking." Turning to Doctor Bronson, Mr. Hegeman suggested that the former should tell the youths about the search in Siberia for Sir John Franklin and his crew. The Doctor smiled as he recalled the story, which he gave with a preliminary explanation: "The Russians apply the term 'equipage' to any kind of vehicle, whether on wheels or runners. The same word is used in Russian as in French to denote the crew of a ship. "A few years after the disappearance of Sir John Franklin, the English Admiralty requested the Russian Government to ascertain if any traces of that officer and his party had been found on the coast of Siberia. A general order was sent to all officials in Siberia to make inquiries about the 'English Captain John Franklin and his equipage.' In due time came reports that nothing could be found, except in a single instance, where a petty official wrote as follows: "'I have made the proper inquiries. I can learn nothing about the English captain, John Franklin, but in one of my villages there is an old sleigh that no one claims, and perhaps it is his equipage.'" [Illustration: THE RIGHT OF WAY IN RUSSIA.] "To return to the road," said Mr. Hegeman, when the laugh created by the story had subsided. "We carried one, and sometimes two bells on the yoke of our shaft-horse, to indicate that we were travelling by post; every humbler vehicle was required to give us not only half but the whole of the road--at any rate, it was expected to do so. Sometimes we had it, and sometimes we did not; if the drivers of the approaching vehicles were awake they usually turned out, but very often they were asleep, and their horses had their own way. When this happened, our driver brought his whip-lash heavily across the sleeper as he passed him. The driver of a post-carriage has the right to thrash a common driver who does not get out of his way, and rarely lets the opportunity pass." Fred suggested that in this way he probably obtained some revenge for the kicks and cuffs he received from his superiors. The rest of the party assented to the idea of the youth. Doctor Bronson remarked that the most cruel of the slave-drivers of the Southern States of America in former times were the negro slaves who were placed in authority over their fellows, and he thought the same rule held good throughout the world in general. [Illustration: GETTING OUT OF DIFFICULTY.] "It had been raining before we arrived at Stratensk, and consequently we found a great deal of mud on the roads. Several times we were mired, and had to send to neighboring farm-houses for additional horses, and twice we removed all our baggage and put our own shoulders to the wheel to get out of trouble. One of these performances was during a shower, and did not improve our condition or temper. I was ready to vote Siberian travelling a first-class nuisance, and felt downhearted at the immense distance that lay between me and the railway-station at Nijni Novgorod. "To make things worse, our Cossack servant had placed our pillows and blankets on the wet ground, and piled heavy baggage on top. For this stupidity my companion, the captain, remonstrated in very strong language, but all that he said could not dry our property. At the next station we stopped for dinner; while we were eating our meal the dampened articles were somewhat improved by being placed in front of the kitchen fire. "Once while descending a hill at full speed a wheel of the tarantasse came off, but no damage was done beyond bringing us to a very sudden stop. The two axles of the vehicle were about twelve feet apart, and connected by a pair of stout poles which had a great deal of 'spring' in them. Properly made, a tarantasse is by no means an uncomfortable vehicle to ride in, provided, of course, you are travelling over good roads." "What did you get for dinner at the station?" Frank asked. "We had the _samovar_, with some tea and sugar, from our own stock, and then we had boiled eggs and bread. They had some cold mutton, of which I ate liberally, as I had an appetite like a tiger, but my friend would hardly touch it. He told me that mutton was rarely eaten by the Russians, and during my journey through Siberia I do not remember seeing it on the table, except in a few of the way-side stations. This was all the more singular when there were great flocks of sheep in the country where we were travelling. The sheep belong principally to the Bouriats, a Mongol people who were the occupants of the country before the Russians went there. "Eggs and bread are the only articles of food you can rely upon getting at the stations, and sometimes even the eggs are wanting. Bread is made from rye flour rather than from wheat, and its complexion is darker than that of the Boston brown bread of America. It is the bread of the peasant from one end of the Empire to the other, and a good many of the nobility prefer it to white bread. For my own part I never liked the black bread of Russia, but often ate it for lack of anything else. "Up hill and down dale we went, and on the second morning of our journey the broad and beautiful valley of the Nertcha River lay before us. Two or three miles above the point where the Nertcha joins the Shilka lies the town of Nertchinsk, a well-built place with five or six thousand inhabitants. It has an air of wealth and solidity, and large fortunes have been made there by men interested in gold-mining. We entered the town through an arched gate-way, and drove to the house of a rich gold-miner with whom my friend was well acquainted. Hardly had we thrown off our wrappings before the _samovar_ was steaming on the table. We were urged to stay to dinner, and, much to my satisfaction, the invitation was accepted by my companion." "Haven't I read about Nertchinsk as a place of exile?" said one of the youths. "Quite likely you have," was the answer. "Nertchinsk and its gold-mines have a prominent place in the history of Siberian exile. Would you like to hear about it?" "Of course we would," the youths eagerly responded. It was agreed that the journey through Siberia should be suspended until the new subject was disposed of. [Illustration: VALLEY OF THE AMOOR ABOVE OUK-SE-ME.] CHAPTER XVI. THE EXILES OF SIBERIA.--THE DECEMBRISTS AND THEIR EXPERIENCE.--SOCIAL POSITION OF EXILES.--DIFFERENT CLASSES OF EXILES AND THEIR SENTENCES.--CRIMINALS AND POLITICALS.--DEGREES OF PUNISHMENT.--PERPETUAL COLONISTS.--HOW EXILES TRAVEL.--LODGING-HOUSES AND PRISONS.--CONVOYS.--THRILLING STORY OF AN ESCAPE FROM SIBERIA.--SECRET ROADS.--HOW PEASANTS TREAT THE EXILES.--PRISONERS IN CHAINS. "There are many errors in the popular mind of England and America concerning the system of exile to Siberia," said Mr. Hegeman, as he settled into a chair to begin his discourse on this interesting subject. "One error is that exiles are treated with such cruelty that they do not live long; that they are starved, beaten, tortured, and otherwise forced into an early death. "No doubt there have been many cases of cruelty just as there have been in prisons and other places of involuntary residence all over the globe and among all nations. Exiles are prisoners, and the lot of a prisoner depends greatly upon the character of his keeper, without regard to the country or nation where he is imprisoned. Siberia is no exception to the rule. With humane officials in power, the life of the exiles is no worse, generally speaking, than is that of the inmates of a prison in other lands; and with brutal men in authority the lot of the exile is doubtless severe. "In the time of the Emperor Nicholas there was probably more cruelty in the treatment of exiles than since his death; but that he invented systems of torture, or allowed those under him to do so, as has been alleged, is an absurdity. "Let me cite a fact in support of my assertion. After the revolution of 1825, just as Nicholas ascended the throne, two hundred of the conspirators were exiled to hard labor for life. They were nearly all young men, of good families, and not one of them had ever devoted a day to manual occupation. Reared in luxury, they were totally unfitted for the toil to which they were sentenced; and if treated with the cruelty that is said to be a part of exile, they could not have lived many months. "The most of them were sent to the mines of Nertchinsk, where they were kept at labor for two years. Afterwards they were employed in a polishing-mill at Chetah and on the public roads for four or five years, and at the end of that time were allowed to settle in the villages and towns, making their living in any way that was practicable. Some of them were joined by their wives, who had property in their own right (the estates of the exiles were confiscated at the time of their banishment), and those thus favored by matrimonial fortune were able to set up fine establishments. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF AN EXILE'S HUT.] "Some of the Decembrists, as these particular exiles were called, from the revolution having occurred in December, died within a few years, but the most of them lived to an advanced age. When Alexander II. ascended the throne, in 1856, all the Decembrists were pardoned. Some of them returned to European Russia after thirty-one years of exile, but they found things so changed, and so many of their youthful companions dead, that they wrote back and advised those who were still in Siberia to stay there. My first visit to Siberia was in 1866, forty-one years after the December revolution. At that time there were ten or twelve of the Decembrists still living, all of them venerable old men. One was a prosperous wine-merchant at Irkutsk; another had made a fortune as a timber-merchant; others were comfortable, though not wealthy; and two or three were in humble, though not destitute circumstances. Now, if they had been treated with the cruelty that is alleged to be the lot of all Siberian exiles, do you think any of them would have reached such an advanced age?" Silence gave assent to the query. After a short pause, Frank asked what was the social standing of these exiles, the Decembrists. [Illustration: EXILES PASSING THROUGH A VILLAGE.] "It was nearly, though not quite, what it was in European Russia before their exile," was the reply. "They were received in the best Siberian families, whether official or civilian, and were on terms of friendship with the officials in a private way. They were not invited to strictly official ceremonies, and this was about the only difference between their treatment and that of those who were not exiles. Of course I refer to the time when they were settled in the towns, after their term of forced labor was ended. Before that they were just like any other prisoners condemned to the same kind of servitude. "There were two of the Decembrists (Prince Troubetskoi and Prince Volbonskoi) whose wives were wealthy, and followed their husbands into exile. When relieved from labor and allowed their personal liberty, these princes came to Irkutsk and built fine houses. They entertained handsomely, were visited by the officials, went very much into society, and in every way were as free as any one else, except that they were forbidden to leave Siberia. Nicholas was not of a forgiving disposition, and not till he died were the Decembrists free to return to St. Petersburg. [Illustration: A TOWN BUILT BY EXILES.] "A bit of social gossip adds to the interest of the Siberian life of Prince Volbonskoi. There was some incompatibility of temper between the prince and his wife, and for a long time they were not particularly friendly. She and the children and servants occupied the large and elegantly furnished house, while the Prince lived in a small building in the court-yard. He had a farm near the town, and sold to his wife such of the produce as she needed for household use." Fred wished to know how many kinds of people are sent to Siberia. "There are three classes of exiles," was the reply: "political, religious, and criminal offenders. The political ones include Nihilists and other revolutionists, and of course there is a great majority of Poles among this class; the religious exiles are certain sects of fanatics that the Government wishes to suppress; and the criminal ones are those who offend against society in all sorts of ways. None of them are ever called 'prisoners' or 'criminals' while in Siberia, and it is not often you hear them termed 'exiles.' In ordinary conversation they are called 'unfortunates,' and in official documents they are classed as 'involuntary emigrants.' "There are about ten thousand 'involuntary emigrants' going every year from European Russia to Siberia. These include criminals of all kinds, a few religious offenders of the fanatical sort, and some Nihilists and other revolutionists. At every revolution in Poland the number of exiles for the next few years is greatly increased. After the revolution of 1863 twenty-four thousand Poles were sent to Siberia, and other revolutions have contributed a proportionate number." "Do they all have the same kind of sentence, without regard to their offences?" one of the youths asked. [Illustration: BANISHED FOR FIVE YEARS.] "Not at all," was the reply. "The lowest sentence is to three years' banishment, and the highest is to hard labor for life. Sentences vary all the way between these two categories--for five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years' banishment, without labor, or for the same number of years with labor. A man may be sentenced to a given number of years' banishment, of which a certain designated portion shall be to hard labor, or he may be sentenced for life, with no hard labor at all. The punishment is varied greatly, and, from all I hear, the sentence is rarely carried out to its fullest degree. The time of exile is not lessened until a general pardon liberates entire classes, but the severity of the labor imposed is almost always lightened. [Illustration: BANISHED FOR THREE YEARS.] "Then, too, the exiles are distributed throughout the country, and not allowed to gather in large numbers. The object of the exile system is to give a population to Siberia, and not to cause the death of the banished individual. Every effort is made to induce the exile to forget the causes that brought him to Siberia, and to make him a good citizen in his new home. His wife and children may follow or accompany him into exile at government expense, but they cannot return to European Russia until he is personally free to do so. This permission is denied in the cases of the worst criminals who are sentenced to hard labor and must leave their families behind. "Figures I was glancing at this morning show that in one year 16,889 persons were sent to Siberia, accompanied by 1080 women and children over fifteen years old, and by 1269 under that age. Of the whole number of exiles mentioned, 1700 were sentenced to hard labor, and 1624 were drunkards and tramps. The status of the rest is not given, but they were probably sentenced to various terms of deportation without labor. "I should say further, in regard to this family matter, that an exile is regarded as a dead man in the place from which he is sent, and his wife, if she remains in Europe, is legally a widow, and may marry again if she chooses. The wifeless man in Siberia is urged to marry and become the head of a family, and whenever he marries, the Government gives him a grant of land and aids him in establishing a home. As long as an exile conducts himself properly, and does not try to escape, he does not find existence in Siberia particularly dreadful, provided, of course, he has not been sent to hard labor, and the officers in charge of him are not of a cruel disposition." Frank asked what work was done by those sentenced to hard labor, and how the men lived who were simply exiles and had not a labor sentence attached. [Illustration: COLONIST'S VILLAGE IN WINTER.] "Those sentenced to _katorga_, or hard labor, are employed in mines or on roads, and in mills and factories of various kinds. Several years ago an order was issued that exiles should no longer be kept at work in mines, but I am told on pretty good authority that this humane decree has been revoked since the rise of Nihilism. In the mines of Nertchinsk, in the latter part of the last century and the early part of the present one, the labor was fearful. The prisoners were in pairs, chained together; they were often kept working in mud and water for fourteen or sixteen hours daily; their lodgings were of the poorest character, and their food was nothing but black bread and occasionally a little cabbage soup. The great mortality in the mines attracted the attention of the Government, and the evils were remedied. "Down to the end of the last century, criminals condemned to the mines were marked by having their nostrils slit open, but this barbarity has not been practised for a long time. "Those sentenced to lighter labor are engaged in trades, such as making shoes, clothing, or other articles. Those who are simply exiled without labor can work at their trades, if they have any, precisely as they would do at home. If they are educated men they may practise their professions, give instruction to young people, or find employment with merchants as book-keepers or other assistants in business. Some years ago the permission for exiles to engage in teaching anything else than music, drawing, and painting was revoked, when it was discovered that some of them had been using their opportunities to spread revolutionary doctrines. Whether this order is yet in force I do not know. "The next thing to hard labor in Siberia is the sentence to become 'a perpetual colonist.' This means that the exile is to make his living by tilling the soil, hunting, fishing, or in any other way that may be permitted by the authorities; he must be under the eye of the police, to whom he reports at regular intervals, and he must not go beyond certain limits that are prescribed to him. "The perpetual colonist has a grant of land, and is supplied with tools and materials for building a house; he receives flour and other provisions for three years, and at the end of that time he is supposed to be able to take care of himself. Where he is sent to a fertile part of the country, his life is not particularly dreadful, though at best it is a severe punishment for a man who has been unaccustomed to toil, and has lived in luxury up to the time of being sent to Siberia. Many of these colonists are sent to the regions in or near the Arctic circle, where it is almost continuous winter, and the opportunities for agriculture are very small. Only a few things can be made to grow at all, and the exile doomed to such a residence must depend mainly upon hunting and fishing. If game is scarce, or the fishing fails, there is liable to be great suffering among these unhappy men. "The friends of an exile may send him money, but not more than twenty-five roubles (about $20) a month. As before stated, the wife of an exile may have an income separate from that of her husband, and if she chooses to spend it they may live in any style they can afford. "Many criminal and political exiles are drafted into the army in much the same way that prisons in other countries are occasionally emptied when recruits are wanted. They receive the same pay and treatment as other soldiers, and are generally sent to distant points, to diminish the chances of desertion. Most of these recruits are sent to the regiments in the Caucasus and Central Asia, and a good many are found in the Siberian regiments. "All money sent to exiles must pass through the hands of the officials. It is a common complaint, and probably well founded, that a goodly part of this money sticks to the hands that touch it before it reaches its rightful owner. The same allegation is made concerning the allowances of money and flour, just enough to support life, that are given to exiles who are restricted to villages and debarred from remunerative occupation." [Illustration: EXILES LEAVING MOSCOW.] "Did you personally meet many exiles while you were in Siberia?" Frank inquired. "I saw a great many while I was travelling through the country," Mr. Hegeman answered, "and in some instances had conversations with them. At the hotel where I stopped in Irkutsk the clerk was an exile, and so was the tailor that made an overcoat for me. Clerks in stores and shops, and frequently the proprietors, were exiles; the two doctors that had the largest practice were 'unfortunates' from Poland, and so was the director of the museum of the Geographical Society of Eastern Siberia. Some of the isvoshchiks were exiles. On one occasion an isvoshchik repeated the conversation which I had with a friend in French, without any suspicion that he understood what we were saying. Hardly a day passed that I did not meet an 'unfortunate,' and I was told that much of the refinement of society in the Siberian capital was due to the exiles. In talking with them I was careful not to allude in any way to their condition, and if they spoke of it, which was rarely the case, I always managed to turn the conversation to some other subject. [Illustration: TAGILSK, CENTRE OF IRON-MINES OF SIBERIA.] "When on the road I met great numbers of exiles on their way eastward. Five-sixths of them were in sleighs or wagons, as it has been found cheaper to have them ride to their destinations than to walk. Those on foot were accompanied by their guards, also on foot; there was a wagon or sleigh in the rear for those who were ill or foot-sore, and there were two or more men on horseback to prevent desertions. Formerly all prisoners were obliged to walk to their destinations. The journey from St. Petersburg to Nertchinsk required two years, as it covered a distance of nearly five thousand miles." "Do they sleep in the open air when on the road, or are they lodged in houses?" inquired Fred. "There are houses every ten or fifteen miles, usually just outside the villages," was the reply. "In these houses the prisoners are lodged. The places are anything but inviting, as the space is not large. No attempt is made to keep it clean, and the ventilation is atrocious. In winter it is a shelter from the cold, but in summer the prisoners greatly prefer to sleep out-of-doors. Sometimes the guards will not grant permission for them to do so, owing to the danger of desertion, but the scruples of the guards may be overcome by a promise obtained from all that no attempt will be made to escape, and that everybody shall watch everybody else. [Illustration: A SIBERIAN VALLEY.] "From fifty to two hundred exiles form a batch or convoy. They are sent off once or twice a week, according to the number that may be on hand. All the convoys of exiles go to Omsk, in Western Siberia, and from there they are distributed throughout the country--some in one direction and some in another. Those that travel on foot rest every third day, and the ordinary march of a day is about fifteen miles; those in carriages are hurried forward, only resting on Sundays, and not always then." "Do the guards of a convoy go all the way through with the prisoners?" "No, they do not; they go from one large town to another. In the large towns there are prisons which serve as depots where exiles are accumulated, and the distribution of prisoners is generally made from these points. The officers and soldiers in charge of a convoy take their prisoners to one of these depots and deliver up their charges; receipts are given for the number of men delivered, just as for so many boxes or bales of goods. The guard can then return to its starting-point, and the prisoners are locked up until the convoy is ready for the road again. "The guards are responsible for their prisoners, both from escape and injury. If a man dies on the road his body is carried to the next station for burial, so that the station-master and others may certify to the death; and if a man is killed while attempting to escape, the same disposition must be made of his body. "Some years ago a Polish lady who was going into exile fell from a boat while descending a river. She had a narrow escape from drowning, and the officer in charge of her was very much alarmed. When she was rescued from the water, he said to her, 'I shall be severely punished if you escape or any accident happens to you. I have tried to treat you kindly, and beg of you, for my sake, not to drown yourself or fall into the river again.'" "But don't a good many escape from Siberia, and either go back to their homes or get to foreign countries?" "The number of escapes is not large," Mr. Hegeman answered, "as the difficulties of getting out of the country are very great. In the first place, there is the immense distance from the middle of Siberia to Moscow or St. Petersburg, or, worse still, to Poland. Nobody can hire horses at a station without showing his paderojnia, and this is only issued by the police-master, who knows the name and probably the face of every exile in his district. Even if a man gets a paderojnia by fraud, his absence would soon be discovered, and his flight can be stopped by the use of the telegraph. "If an exile should try to get out of the country by going northward he would be stopped by the shores of the Arctic Ocean. If he goes to the south he enters China, or the inhospitable regions of Central Asia, where it is difficult, if not impossible, for a European to travel alone. "Occasionally some one escapes by way of the Amoor River, or the ports of the Okhotsk Sea; but there are not many ships entering and leaving those ports, and the police keep a sharp watch over them to make sure that they do not carry away more men than they bring. I once met in Paris a Pole who had escaped from Siberia by this route. By some means that he would not reveal to me, he managed to get out of the Amoor River and cross to the island of Saghalin. The southern half of the island was then in possession of the Japanese, and he lived among them for several months. Then he got on board an American whaling-ship, and worked his passage to San Francisco, where he found some countrymen, who helped him on his way to Paris. [Illustration: TWO EXILED FRIENDS MEETING.] "I know another man, a Russian nobleman, who escaped from Siberia and went back over the route by which he had come. For convenience I will call him Ivanoff, though that was not his name. He accomplished it in this way: "He had concealed quite a sum of money about his person, which the guards failed to find after searching him repeatedly. His offence was political, and he was sentenced to twenty years' exile. While his convoy was on the road between Krasnoyarsk and Irkutsk, he arranged to change names with Petrovitch, a criminal who had been sentenced to three years' banishment, and was to remain near Irkutsk. Ivanoff was to go beyond Lake Baikal, whence escape is much more difficult. For one hundred roubles the criminal consented to the change, and to take his chances for the result. "The substitution was made at the depot in Irkutsk, where the names were called off and the new convoys made out. The convoy for the trans-Baikal was first made up, and when Ivanoff's name was read the burglar stepped forward and answered the question as to his sentence. The officers who had accompanied them from Krasnoyarsk were not present, and so there was no great danger of the fraud being discovered; the convoy was made up, the new officers moved off, and that was the last my friend saw of his hired substitute. [Illustration: ESCAPING EXILES CROSSING A STREAM.] "Ivanoff (under his new name of Petrovitch) was sent to live in a village about twenty miles from Irkutsk, and required to report twice a week to the police. He found employment with a peasant farmer, and managed to communicate with a friend in Irkutsk, though not without much difficulty. The peasant used to send him to market with the produce of the farm, as he found that Ivanoff could obtain better prices than himself; the fact was he generally sold to his friend, who purposely overpaid him, and if he did not find his friend he added a little to the amount out of his own pocket. Ivanoff and his friend haggled a great deal over their transactions, and thus conversed without arousing suspicion. "Things went on in this way for some months, and the good conduct of the apparently reformed criminal won him the favor of the police-master to whom he was required to report. His time of reporting was extended to once a week, and later to once a month. This gave him the chance of escaping. "By a judicious use of his money he secured the silence of his employer and obtained a paderojnia of the second class. The day after reporting to the police he went to fish in the Angara, the river that flows past Irkutsk and has a very swift current. As soon as he was missed his employer led the search in the direction of the river. The coat, basket, and fishing-rod of the unfortunate man lay on the bank; it was easy to see that he had been standing on a stone at the edge of the water, and the stone having given way the river had swallowed Ivanoff, and carried his body away towards the Arctic Ocean. Some money was in the pocket of the coat, and was appropriated by the officers. [Illustration: IVANOFF'S CAVE.] "But instead of being drowned, Ivanoff was safely concealed in a cave under a large rock in the forest. He had found it on one of his hunting excursions, and had previously conveyed to it a quantity of provisions, together with some clothing supplied by his friend in Irkutsk. There he remained for a fortnight; then he went to Irkutsk, and started on his journey. "People leaving Irkutsk frequently drive to the first station in their own vehicles, and there hire the carriages of the posting service. So one evening Ivanoff rode out to the station in a carriage hired in front of the hotel. He did not tell me, but I suspect that his friend supplied the carriage, and possibly handled the reins himself. "At the station he boldly exhibited his paderojnia and demanded horses, and in a few minutes he was on the road. Safe? Well, he could never tell whether he was safe or not, as the telegraph might at any moment flash an order for his detention. "On and on he went. He pretended to be, and really was, in a great hurry. He was liberal to the drivers, but not over-liberal, lest he might be suspected. Suspicion would lead to inquiry, and inquiry would be followed by arrest. But he obtained the best speed that could be had for a careful use of money, and was compelled to be satisfied. "Several times he thought he had been discovered, and his feelings were those of intense agony. At one of the large stations the smotretal came to him with an open telegram which said a prisoner was missing, and orders had been sent along the line to watch for him. "Ivanoff took the telegram and read it. Then he noted down the description of the fugitive (happily not himself), and told the smotretal to take no further trouble till he heard from him, but to keep a sharp watch for all new arrivals. 'Unless I telegraph you from the next town,' said he, 'you may be sure that he has not passed any of the intervening stations.' "He went on, and heard no more of the matter. At another point he fell in with a Russian captain going the same way as himself. The captain proposed they should travel together, for the double purpose of companionship and economy. Much as he disliked the proposal, he was forced to accede, as a refusal might rouse suspicion. "Luckily for him, his new friend was garrulous, and did most of the talking; but, like most garrulous people, he was inquisitive, and some of his queries were decidedly unpleasant. Ivanoff had foreseen just such a circumstance, and made up a plausible story. He had just come to Siberia, and only three days after his arrival was summoned back by the announcement of his father's death. His presence was needed in St. Petersburg to arrange the financial affairs of the family. [Illustration: EXILES AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.] "By this story he could account for knowing nobody in Siberia; and as he was well acquainted with St. Petersburg he could talk as freely as one might wish about the affairs of the capital. He was thrown into a cold perspiration at one of the stations, where his garrulous companion proposed, as a matter of whiling away the time after breakfast, that they should examine the register for the record of their journeys eastward. Ivanoff managed to put the idea out of his head, and ever after made their stay at the stations as short as possible. "Imagine Ivanoff's feelings when one day the other said, "'Exiles sometimes escape by getting forged passports and travelling on them. Wouldn't it be funny if you were one? Ha! ha! ha!' "Of course Ivanoff laughed too, and quite as heartily. Then he retorted, "'Now that you mentioned it, I've half a mind to take you to the next police-station and deliver you up as a fugitive. Ha! ha! ha! Suppose we do it, and have some fun with the police?' "Thereupon the serious side of the affair developed in the mind of Mr. Garrulity. He declined the fun of the thing, and soon the subject was dropped. It was occasionally referred to afterwards, and each thought how funny it would be if the other were really a fugitive. "They continued in company until they reached Kazan. There they separated, Ivanoff going to Nijni Novgorod and Moscow, and from the latter proceeding by railway to Smolensk and Warsaw. From Warsaw he went to Vienna. As soon as he set foot on the soil of Austria he removed his hat and, for the first time in many months, inhaled a full breath of air without the feeling that the next moment might see him in the hands of the dreaded police. He was now a free man." "And what became of his companion?" "When they separated at Kazan, the latter announced his intention of descending the Volga to Astrachan. It was fully a year afterwards that my friend was passing a café in Paris, and heard his assumed name called by some one seated under the awning in front of the establishment. Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw his old acquaintance of the Siberian road. "They embraced, and were soon sipping coffee together. Ivanoff talked freely, now that he was out of danger of discovery, and astonished his old acquaintance by his volubility. At length the latter said, "'What a flow of language you have here in Paris, to be sure. You never talked so much in a whole day when we were together as in the hour we've sat here.' "'Good reason for it,' answered Ivanoff. 'I had a bridle on my tongue then, and it's gone now. I was escaping from a sentence of twenty years in Siberia for political reasons.' "'And that's what made you so taciturn,' said the other. 'I was escaping from the same thing, and that's what made me so garrulous. When we met at that station I feared you might be on the lookout for me; and much as I hated doing so, I proposed that we should travel together.' "They had a good laugh over the circumstances of their journey, where each was in mortal terror of the other. The one was talkative and the other silent for exactly the same reason--to disarm suspicion. [Illustration: SIBERIAN PEASANTS.] "I could tell you other stories of escaping from exile, but this one is a fair sample of them all. Of those who attempt to leave the country not one in twenty ever succeeds, owing to the difficulties I have mentioned, and the watchfulness of the police. The peasants of Siberia will generally help an escaping exile, but they do not dare to do it openly. Many of them put loaves of bread outside their windows at night, so that the runaways can come and obtain food without being seen. They plant little patches of turnips near the villages for the same reason, and call them gifts to the 'unfortunates.' Whenever the soldiers find any of these turnip-patches they destroy them, in order to hinder the progress of fugitives. "There is said to be a secret road or path through Siberia known only to the exiles; it is about two thousand miles long, avoids all the regular lines of travel, and keeps away from the towns and villages. It winds over plains and among the mountains, through forests and near the rivers, and is marked by little mounds of earth, and by notches cut in the trees. "Those who travel this road must undergo great hardship, and it is said that not more than half who undertake it are ever heard of again. They perish of starvation or cold, or may venture too near the villages in search of food, and fall into the hands of the police. The path must be travelled on foot, as it is not sufficiently broad for horses; and when any part of it is discovered by the soldiers the route must be changed. The exiles have means of communicating with each other, and no matter how closely the authorities may watch them, an occurrence in one Siberian prison will soon be known at all others in the country." Frank asked Mr. Hegeman if he had ever seen any prisoners in Siberia wearing chains? [Illustration: SIBERIAN MILK-WOMEN.] "Many of them," was the reply, "especially in the prisons in the towns, and at the places where they are kept at hard labor. The simple exiles are not required to wear chains; it is only those condemned to hard labor for a long term of years that are thus oppressed. By an old law of Russia the chains must not weigh more than five pounds; there is a belt around the waist, and from this belt a chain extends to an iron band around each ankle. The clanking of the chains, either on the road or in the prisons, has a most horrible sound. "The continued use of this relic of barbarism is strenuously opposed by a great many Russians. With the exception of the 'ball and chain,' which is a form of military punishment everywhere, no other Christian nation now requires its prisoners to wear chains continually. If the Emperor of Russia would issue a decree that henceforth no prisoner shall be put in chains except for specially unruly conduct or other good cause, and abolish altogether the present regulations about chains, he would take a long advance step for his nation." Doctor Bronson and the youths agreed with him. Fred was about to ask a question when one of the stewards made the announcement, "_Obed gotovey, gospoda!_" ("Dinner is ready, gentlemen!") Siberia and its exiles were forgotten for the time, as the party adjourned to the dining-saloon of the steamer. [Illustration: SIBERIA IN SUMMER.] CHAPTER XVII. CHARACTER OF THE SIBERIAN POPULATION.--ABSENCE OF SERFDOM, AND ITS EFFECT.--A RUSSIAN FÊTE.--AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEASANTRY.--COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.--CURIOUS CUSTOMS.--WHIPPING A WIFE.--OVERLAND THROUGH SIBERIA AGAIN.--CHETAH AND THE BOURIATS.--IN A BOURIAT VILLAGE.--VERCKNE UDINSK.--SIBERIAN ROBBERS.--TEA-TRAINS AND TEA-TRADE.--KIACHTA.--LODGED BY THE POLICE.--TRADE BETWEEN RUSSIA AND CHINA. When the conversation about Siberia was resumed, Frank suggested that there must be a great many people in that country who were descended from exiles, since it had been for a long time a place of banishment, and the exiles were accompanied in many cases by their families. "Your supposition is correct," said Mr. Hegeman; "the descendants of exiles are probably more numerous to-day than are the exiles themselves. Eastern Siberia is mainly peopled by them, and Western Siberia very largely so. All serfs exiled to Siberia under the system prevailing before the emancipation became free peasants, and could not be restored to their former condition of servitude. "Many descendants of exiles have become wealthy through commerce or gold-mining, and occupy positions which they never could have obtained in European Russia. When I visited Irkutsk I made the acquaintance of a merchant whose fortune ran somewhere in the millions. He had a large house, with a whole retinue of servants, and lived very expensively. He was the son of an exiled serf, and made his fortune in the tea-trade. "Many prominent merchants and gold-miners were mentioned as examples of the prosperity of the second and third generations from exiles. Of those who had made their own fortunes in the country the instances were by no means few. One, an old man, who was said to have a large fortune and a charming family of well-educated children, was pointed out as an illustration of the benefits of exile. Forty years before that time he was sent to Siberia by his master out of the merest caprice. In Siberia he obtained fortune and social position. Had he remained in Europe he would probably have continued a simple peasant, and reared his children in ignorance. [Illustration: AN EXILE PEASANT AND HIS FRIENDS.] "The advantages of Siberia are further shown by the fact that a great many exiles decline to return to European Russia after their terms of service are ended. Especially is this the case with those who are doing well financially, or have families with them, either from their old homes or by marriage in Siberia. I talked with several intelligent Poles, who said they did not intend returning to Poland. 'We were drawn unwillingly into the acts that caused our banishment,' they said, 'and may suffer again in the same way if we go home; in Siberia there are no disturbing influences around us, and we prefer to stay here.' On the other hand, the love of home is very strong with many exiles, and they take the first opportunity of leaving the country of their banishment." Fred asked if they had the same system of serfdom in Siberia before the emancipation as in European Russia. "At the time of the emancipation," said Mr. Hegeman, "there was only one proprietor of serfs in all Siberia; he was the grandson of a gentleman who received a grant of land, with serfs, from Catherine II. None of the family, with a single exception, ever attempted to exercise more than nominal authority, and that one was murdered in consequence of enforcing his full proprietary rights. [Illustration: A SIBERIAN LANDSCAPE.] "Siberia was a land of freedom, so far as serfs were concerned. The system of serfdom never had any foothold there. The Siberians say that the superior prosperity enjoyed by the peasants of their part of Russia had a great deal to do with the emancipation measures of Alexander II. The Siberian peasants were noticeably better fed, clothed, and educated than the corresponding class in European Russia, and the absence of masters gave them an air of independence. Distinctions were much less marked among the people, and in many instances the officials associated familiarly with men they would have hesitated to recognize on the other side of the Ural Mountains." "It sounds odd enough to talk about Siberia as a land of freedom," said Fred, "when we've always been accustomed to associate the name of the country with imprisonment." Just then the steamer stopped at one of its regular landings; and as she was to be there for an hour or more, the party took a stroll on shore. There were only two or three houses at the landing-place, the town which it supplied lying a little back from the river, upon ground higher than the bank. It happened to be a holiday, and there was quite a group at the landing-place. The peasants were in their best clothes, and several games were in progress. Frank and Fred hardly knew which way to turn, as there were several things they wished to see all at once. [Illustration: GIRLS PLAYING AT SKAKIET.] Some girls were in a circle, with their hands joined; they were singing songs which had a good deal of melody, and the whole performance reminded the youths of the "round-a-ring-a-rosy" game of their native land. Close by this group were two girls playing a game which was called _skakiet_ in Russian. They had a board balanced on its centre, and a girl stood on each end of the board. The maidens jumped alternately into the air, and the descent of one caused her companion to go higher each time. Mr. Hegeman said it was a favorite amusement in the Russian villages. It required a little practice, as the successful performer must maintain a perfectly upright position. Two girls who are skilled at the game will sometimes keep up this motion for fifteen or twenty minutes without apparent fatigue. Among the men there were wrestling-matches, which were conducted with a good deal of vigor. Frank observed that some of the wrestlers received very ugly falls, but did not seem to mind them in the least. The Russian peasantry are capable of rough handling. They are accustomed to it all their lives, and not at all disturbed by anything of an ordinary character. They resemble the lower classes of the English populace more than any other people. The women are more refined than the men in their amusements. Singing and dancing are very popular among them, and they have quite a variety of dances. A favorite dance is in couples, where they spin round and round, until one of the pair drops or sits down from sheer fatigue. [Illustration: A VILLAGE FESTIVAL.] As our friends strolled near the river-bank they came upon a group of women engaged in one of these dances. Three or four of the by-standers were singing, and thus supplied the music; two women stood facing each other in the centre of the group, each with her hands resting on her hips. One of the singers raised her hands, and at this signal the whirling began. When this couple was tired out another came forward, and so the dance was kept up. Fred thought the dress of the dancers was not particularly graceful, as each woman wore stout boots instead of shoes. They had already observed that the old-fashioned boot is not by any means confined to the sterner sex among the Russian peasantry. Some of the women wore flowers in their hair, but the majority of the heads were covered with handkerchiefs. Doctor Bronson explained to the youths that a woman may wear her hair loosely while she is unmarried, but when she becomes a wife she wraps it in a kerchief, or encloses it in a net. Naturally this explanation by the Doctor led to a question about marriage customs in Russia. "Courtship in Russia is not like the same business in America," remarked the Doctor, in reply to the query. "A good deal of it has to be done by proxy." "How is that?" "When a young fellow wishes to take a wife, he looks around among the young women of his village and selects the one that best pleases him. Then he sends a messenger--his mother, or some other woman of middle age--to the parents of the girl, with authority to begin negotiations. If they can agree upon the terms of the proposed marriage, the amount of dowry the bride is to receive, and other matters bearing on the subject, the swain receives a favorable report. Sometimes the parents of the girl are opposed to the match, and will not listen to any proposals; in such case the affair ends at once, the girl herself having nothing to say in the matter. Quite likely she may never know anything about it. "The whole business is arranged between the elders who have it in charge. The custom seems to be largely Oriental in its character, though partaking somewhat of the marriage ways of France and other European countries. "Supposing the negotiations to have resulted favorably, the young man is notified when he can begin his visits to the house of his beloved. He dresses in his best clothes (very much as an American youth would do under similar circumstances), and calls at the appointed time. He carries a present of some kind--and the long-established custom requires that he must never make a call during his courtship without bringing a present. One of the gifts must be a shawl." "In that case," said Fred, "the young men are probably favorable to short courtships, while the girls would be in no hurry. If every visit must bring a present, a long courtship would heap up a fine lot of gifts." "That is quite true," Doctor Bronson replied, "and instances have been known where the match was broken off after the patience and pocket of the suitor were exhausted. But he has a right to demand a return of his presents in such an event." "And, as has happened in similar cases in America," Frank retorted, "he does not always get them." "Quite true," said the Doctor, with a smile; "but the family playing such a trick would not find other suitors very speedily. Human nature is the same in all countries, and even the young man in love is shy of being defrauded. [Illustration: RUSSIAN PEASANT WOMEN.] "But we will suppose everything has gone favorably," the Doctor continued, "and the suitor has been accepted. As a matter of fact, Russian courtships are short, only a month or two, and possibly for the reason you suggested. A day is fixed for the betrothal, and the ceremony takes place in the presence of the families of both the parties to the engagement. The betrothal is virtually a marriage ceremony, as it binds the two so firmly together that only the most serious reasons can separate them. The betrothal ceremony is at the house of the bride's parents, and is followed in due course by the wedding, which takes place in church. "Custom requires that the bride shall supply a certain quantity of linen and other household property, while the husband provides the dwelling and certain specified articles of furniture. Between them they should be able to set up house-keeping immediately, but there are probably many cases where they cannot do so. Among well-to-do people the bride provides a dozen shirts, a dressing-gown, and a pair of slippers for her husband; she is supposed to spin the flax, weave it into cloth, and make the shirts; but, as a matter of fact, she buys the material, and very often gets the garments ready-made. "For a day or two before the wedding, all the dowry of the bride is exhibited in a room set apart for the purpose; a priest blesses it with holy water, and friends call to gaze upon the matrimonial trophies. Among the middle and upper classes the bridegroom gives a dinner to his bachelor friends, as in some other countries, the evening before the wedding; the bride on the same evening assembles her companions, who join in singing farewell to her. The bridegroom sends them a liberal supply of candy, cakes, bonbons, and the like, and they indulge in quite a festivity. "Among the peasants the companions of the bride accompany her to the bath on the evening before the wedding, and both going and returning she is expected to weep bitterly and loudly. An English lady tells how she heard a Russian girl, who was about to be married, giving vent to the wildest grief, while her companions were trying to cheer her by singing. The lady felt very sorry for the poor maiden, and rejoiced when she passed out of hearing. "A little later in the evening the lady went with a friend to call at the bride's cottage, and entered quite unannounced. The bride was supping heartily, her face full of expressions of joy; the Englishwoman was startled and still more surprised when the girl asked, "'Didn't I do it well?' "It then came out that the weeping was all a farce, though there may be cases where it is not so. [Illustration: MAKING CALLS AFTER A WEDDING.] "On the day of the wedding the bride and groom do not see each other until they meet in church. After the ceremony the whole party goes to the house of the bride's parents, where a reception is held in honor of the event. When it is over, the young couple go to their own home, if they have one; the next morning all the parents and relatives go and take coffee with the newly married; then there are dinner-parties at the houses of both pairs of parents; other parties and dinners follow, and sometimes the feasting is kept up for a week or more. It is a trying ordeal for all concerned, and there is general rejoicing when the festivities are over. "Among the peasantry it is the custom, at least in some parts of Russia, for the bride to present a whip to her husband the day after the wedding. This whip is hung at the head of the bed, and, if report is true, it is not unfrequently used." "I remember seeing a whip hanging at the head of the bed in some of the houses we have visited," said Fred, "and wondered what it was there for." "The curious thing about the matter is," the Doctor continued, "that a good many wives expect the whip to be used. The same lady I just referred to says that one of her nurse-maids left her to be married. A short time after the marriage she went to the _nachalnik_, or justice of the peace, of her village, and complained that her husband did not love her. The nachalnik asked how she knew it, and the young wife replied, "'Because he has not whipped me once since we were married!' [Illustration: CEREMONY AFTER A PEASANT'S WEDDING.] "Among the peasantry the married couple goes to the house of the owner of the estate to receive his blessing. He comes to the door and welcomes them as they bow in front of him till their foreheads nearly touch the ground." The steamer's whistle recalled the party, and in a little while they were again on their voyage. Mr. Hegeman resumed the story of his ride through Siberia as soon as all were seated in their accustomed places. "I think we were at Nertchinsk," said he, "when we turned aside to the mines where the exiles were formerly employed." "Yes," replied Fred; "you had just arrived at the house of the friend of your companion, and accepted an invitation to remain for dinner." "That was it, exactly," responded the traveller. "We had an excellent dinner, and soon after it was over we continued on our journey. We sent back the tarantasse which we had hired from the station-master, and obtained a larger and better one from our host. "Two nights and the intervening day brought us, without any incident worth remembering, to Chetah, the capital of the province of the trans-Baikal. It is a town of four or five thousand inhabitants, and stands on the Ingodah River, a tributary of the Shilka. Below this point the river is navigable for boats and rafts, and it was here that General Mouravieff organized the expedition for the conquest of the Amoor. A considerable garrison is kept here, and the town has an important place in the history of Siberian exile. Many of the houses are large and well built. The officers of the garrison have a club, and ordinarily the society includes a good many ladies from European Russia. "I stopped two or three days at Chetah, and my courier friend continued his journey. Finding a young officer who was going to Kiachta, on the frontier of Mongolia, I arranged to accompany him, and one evening we started. I think I have before told you that a Siberian journey nearly always begins in the evening, and is continued day and night till its close. The day is passed in making calls, and usually winds up with a dinner at somebody's house. After dinner, and generally pretty late in the evening, the last call is made, the last farewells are spoken, and you bundle into your vehicle and are off. [Illustration: THE MOUNTAINS NEAR CHETAH.] "From Chetah the road steadily climbed the hills, and my companion said we would soon be over the ridge of the Yablonnoi Mountains, and in the basin of the Arctic Ocean. From the eastern slope of the mountains the rivers flow through the Amoor to the Pacific Ocean; from the western slope they run into Lake Baikal, and thence through the outlet of that lake to the great frozen sea that surrounds the pole. The cold rapidly increased, and when we crossed the ridge it seemed that the thermometer went ten degrees lower in almost as many minutes. "The country through which we passed was flat or slightly undulating, with occasional stretches of hills of no great height. There are few Russian villages, the principal inhabitants being Bouriats, a people of Mongol origin, who are said to have been conquered by the hordes of Genghis Khan five hundred years ago. They made considerable resistance to the Russians when the latter came to occupy the country, but ever since their subjugation they have been entirely peaceful. [Illustration: A BOURIAT VILLAGE.] "Some of the Bouriats live in houses like those of the Russians, but the most of them cling to the _yourt_ or _kibitka_, which is the peculiar habitation of the nomad tribes of Central Asia. Even when settled in villages they prefer the yourt to the house, though the latter is far more comfortable than the former. "We changed horses in a Bouriat village, where a single Russian lived and filled the office of station-master, justice of the peace, governor, secretary, and garrison. I took the opportunity of visiting a yourt, which proved to be a circular tent about eighteen feet in diameter, and rounded at the top like a dome. There was a frame of light trellis-work covered with thick felt made from horse-hair; at the highest point of the dome the yourt has an open space which allows the smoke to pass out, at least in theory. A small fire is kept burning in the middle of the floor during the day, and covered up at night; the door is made of a piece of felt of double or treble thickness, and hanging like a curtain over the entrance. "I had not been two minutes inside the yourt before my eyes began to smart severely, and I wanted to get into the open air. The pain was caused by the smoke, which was everywhere through the interior of the tent, but did not seem to inconvenience the Bouriats in the least. I noticed, however, that nearly all their eyes were red, and apparently inflamed, and doubtless this condition was caused by the smoke. "A family of several persons finds plenty of space in one of these tents, as they can be very closely packed. The furniture is principally mats and skins, which are seats by day and beds by night. They have pots and kettles for cooking, a few jars and bottles for holding liquids, sacks for grain, half a dozen pieces of crockery, and little else. A wooden box contains the valuable clothing of the family, and this box, with two or three bags and bundles, forms the entire wardrobe accommodation. "My attention was drawn to a small altar on which were tiny cups containing oil, grain, and other offerings to the Deities. The Bouriats are Buddhists, and have their lamas to give them the needed spiritual advice. The lamas are numerous, and frequently engage in the same callings as their followers. By the rules of their religion they are not permitted to kill anything, however small or insignificant. Whenever a lama has a sheep to slaughter he gets everything ready, and then passes the knife to his secular neighbor. "The Bouriats are not inclined to agriculture, but devote most of their energy to sheep-raising. They have large flocks, and sell considerable wool to the Russians. Their dress is a mixture of Russian and Chinese, the conveniences of each being adopted, and the inconveniences rejected. They decorate their waist-belts with steel or brass, shave the head, and wear the hair in a queue, but are not careful to keep it closely trimmed. With their trousers of Chinese cut, and sheepskin coats of Russian model, they presented an odd appearance. The women are not generally good-looking, but there is now and then a girl whose face is really beautiful. "We were called from the yourt with the announcement '_Loshadi gotovey_' ("Horses are ready"), and were soon dashing away from the village. Our driver was a Bouriat; he handled the reins with skill and the whip with vigor, and in every way was the equal of his Russian competitor. For two or three hundred miles most of our drivers were Bouriats, and certainly they deserve praise for their equestrian abilities. At many of our stopping-places the station-masters were the only Russians, all the employés being Bouriats." Frank asked whether the Bouriats had adopted any of the Russian manners and customs, or if they still adhered to their Mongol ways. [Illustration: A WANDERING PRIEST.] "They stick to their customs very tenaciously," was the reply, "and as for their religion, the Russian priests have made no progress in converting them to the faith of the Empire. Two English missionaries lived for many years at Selenginsk, which is in the centre of the Bouriat country, and though they labored earnestly they never gained a single convert. "Buddhism is of comparatively recent origin among these people. Two hundred years ago they were _Shamans_, or worshippers of good and evil spirits, principally the latter, and in this respect differed little from the wild tribes of the Amoor and of Northern Siberia. About the end of the seventeenth century the Bouriats sent a mission to Lassa, the religious capital of Thibet, and a stronghold of Buddhism. The members of this mission were appointed lamas, and brought back the paraphernalia and ritual of the new faith; they announced it to the people, and in an astonishingly short time the whole tribe was converted, and has remained firm ever since. "We spent a day at Verckne Udinsk, which has a church nearly two hundred years old, and built with immensely thick walls to resist the earthquakes which are not uncommon there. In fact there was an earthquake shock while we were on the road, but the motion of the carriage prevented our feeling it. We only knew what had happened when we reached the station and found the master and his employés in a state of alarm. "The Gostinna Dvor contained a curious mixture of Russians and Bouriats in about equal numbers, but there was nothing remarkable in the goods offered for sale. An interesting building was the jail, which seemed unnecessarily large for the population of the place. A gentleman who knew my companion told us that the jail was rapidly filling up for winter. 'We have,' said he, 'a great number of what you call tramps in America; in summer they wander through the country, and live by begging and stealing, but in winter they come to the jails to be lodged and fed until warm weather comes again. After spending the cold season here they leave in the spring--as the trees do.' "He further told us there was then in the jail and awaiting trial a man who confessed to the murder of no less than seventeen people. He had been a robber, and when in danger of discovery had not hesitated to kill those whom he plundered. On one occasion he had killed four persons in a single family, leaving only a child too young to testify against him." Fred wished to know if robberies were common in Siberia. "Less so than you might suppose," was the reply, "when there is such a proportion of criminals among the population. They are mostly committed in summer, as that is the season when the tramps are in motion. The principal victims are merchants, who often carry money in large amounts; officers are rarely attacked, as they usually have only the money needed for their travelling expenses, and are more likely than the merchants to be provided with fire-arms and skilled in their use. My companion and myself each had a revolver, and kept it where it could be conveniently seized in case of trouble. We never had any occasion to use our weapons, and I will say here that not once in all my journey through Siberia was I molested by highwaymen. [Illustration: CROSSING THE SELENGA.] "When we left Verckne Udinsk we crossed the Selenga, a river which rises in Chinese Tartary, and after a long and tortuous course falls into Lake Baikal, whence its waters reach the Arctic Ocean. There was no bridge, and we traversed the stream on a ferry. The river was full of floating ice, and the huge cakes ground very unpleasantly against the sides of the craft which bore ourselves and our tarantasse. The river was on the point of freezing; there was just a possibility that it would close while we were crossing, and keep us imprisoned until such time as the ice was thick enough to bear us safely. As this would involve a detention of several hours where the accommodations were wretched, the outlook was not at all pleasant. "All's well that ends well; we landed on a sand-bank on the other side, and after a little delay the boatmen succeeded in getting our carriage on shore without accident. About six miles from the river the road divided, one branch going to Irkutsk and the other to Kiachta, our destination. Away we sped up the valley of the Selenga. The road was not the best in the world, and we were shaken a good deal as the drivers urged their teams furiously. "On this road we met long trains of carts laden with tea. Each cart has a load of from six to ten chests, according to the condition of the roads, and is drawn by a single horse. There is a driver to every four or five carts, and he has a bed on the top of one of his loads. The drivers were nearly always asleep, and their horses showed a good deal of intelligence in turning out whenever they heard the sound of our bells. If they did not turn out they received a reminder from the whip of our driver, who always had an extra stroke for the slumbering teamster." Frank asked where these carts were going. "They were going to Irkutsk," said Mr. Hegeman, "and from that city the most of the tea they carried was destined for European Russia." "Oh, now I remember," said Frank; "Doctor Bronson told us about the tea importation from China, and how it all came overland down to 1860, with the exception of one cargo annually." "Many persons still prefer the tea brought by land, as the herb is thought to be injured by passing over salt-water, although packed in air-tight chests. At the time I speak of, not less than a million chests of tea were taken annually from Kiachta to European Russia, a distance of four thousand miles. To Kiachta it came on the backs of camels from the tea districts of China, so that camels and horses in great number were employed in the transport of tea. "Each chest is covered with rawhide, which protects it from rain and snow, and from the rough handling and shaking it receives. Across Siberia it is carried in carts in summer, and on sledges in winter. The horse-caravans travel sixteen hours out of every twenty-four, and the teams rarely go faster than a walk. The teams are the property of peasants, who make contracts for the work at a certain price per chest. "For the latter part of the way the road was hilly and sandy, and our progress was slow. About nine in the evening we reached Kiachta; and as there is no hotel there, we went to the police-master to obtain lodgings." "Not at the police-station, I hope," said Fred. "Not at all," Mr. Hegeman responded, with a slight laugh. "In many towns of Siberia there is not sufficient travel to make hotel-keeping profitable, and consequently there are no hotels. By custom and law the inhabitants are required to receive travellers who may require accommodation, and all such lodging-places are registered with the police. For this reason we went to the police-master and received the name of the citizen who was to be honored with our company. [Illustration: FINDING LODGINGS AT KIACHTA.] "It was about ten o'clock when we reached the house, accompanied by two soldiers who brought the mandate of the office and showed us the way. Everybody was in bed, and it required a good deal of knocking to rouse the servants and afterwards the master, who came to the door in his night-shirt. He stood shivering while our explanations were made, and did not seem to realize his ludicrous appearance until we were admitted to the mansion and our baggage was landed." Frank inquired if it was often necessary in Siberian towns to obtain lodgings in this way, and whether they were paid for? "It was only the lateness of the hour and the fact that neither of us had ever been in Kiachta that compelled us to apply to the police-master. Travellers are unfrequent in Siberia, and the few strangers that go through the country are cordially welcomed. Officers are entertained by their fellow-officers, and merchants by their fellow-merchants. Lodgings obtained as we obtained ours are paid for exactly as they would be at a hotel. We were invited to move the next day, but were so well lodged that we chose to stay where we were. "The morning after our arrival we delivered our letters of introduction and made numerous calls, the latter including a visit to the _Sargootchay_, or Chinese Governor of Mai-mai-chin. Which of you has read enough about the relations between China and Russia to tell me about these two places--Kiachta and Mai-mai-chin?" Frank was the first to speak, which he did as follows: "Kiachta and Mai-mai-chin were built in 1727 for the purposes of commerce--Mai-mai-chin meaning in Chinese 'place of trade.' The towns are about a hundred yards apart, one thoroughly Russian and the other as thoroughly Chinese. From 1727 to 1860 nearly all the trade between the two empires was conducted at this point, and the merchants who managed the business made great fortunes. Women were forbidden to live in Mai-mai-chin, and down to the present day the Chinese merchants keep their families at Urga, two or three hundred miles to the south. The same restriction was at first made upon the Russian merchants at Kiachta, but after a time the rule was relaxed and has never since been enforced. Until quite recently, strangers were forbidden to stay over-night in Kiachta, but were lodged at Troitskosavsk, about two miles away." "I should say right here," remarked Mr. Hegeman, "that my friend and myself were really lodged in Troitskosavsk and not in Kiachta. The latter place had about a thousand inhabitants, and the former four or five thousand. At a distance only Kiachta is mentioned, just as a man may say he lives in London or New York when his home is really in a suburb of one of those cities." "I have read somewhere," said Fred, "that the Russian and Chinese Governments stipulated in their treaty that the products and manufactures of each country should be exchanged for those of the other, and no money was to be used in their commercial transactions." "That was the stipulation," said Doctor Bronson, "but the merchants soon found a way to evade it." "How was that?" [Illustration: CHINESE CASH FROM MAI-MAI-CHIN.] "The balance of trade was greatly in favor of China, as the Russians wanted great quantities of tea, while they did not produce or manufacture many things that the Chinese could use. Furs were the principal articles of Russian production that the Chinese would take, but their demand for them was not enough to meet the Russian demand for tea. The treaty forbade the use of gold or silver coin under severe penalties, but somebody discovered that it did not prohibit articles of Russian manufacture being made of those metals. So they used to melt gold and silver coin, and cast them into Chinese idols which were sold by weight. The Government prohibited the melting of its coin, and then the merchants bought their crude gold and silver directly from the miners. With this source of supply always at hand they were able to supply 'articles of Russian manufacture' without difficulty. As late as 1860 every visitor to Kiachta was searched, to make sure that he had no gold coin in his possession." [Illustration: ARTICLES OF RUSSIAN MANUFACTURE.] CHAPTER XVIII. GENERAL ASPECTS OF MAI-MAI-CHIN.--DINNER WITH A CHINESE GOVERNOR.--A THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE.--LAKE BAIKAL: ITS REMARKABLE FEATURES.--A WONDERFUL RIDE.--IRKUTSK.--ITS POPULATION, SIZE, AND PECULIARITIES.--SOCIAL GAYETIES.--PREPARATIONS FOR A LONG SLEIGH-RIDE.--LIST OF GARMENTS.--VARIETIES OF SLEIGHS.--FAREWELL TO IRKUTSK.--SLEIGHING INCIDENTS.--FOOD ON THE ROAD.--SIBERIAN MAILS.--ADVANTAGES OF WINTER TRAVELLING.--SLEIGHING ON BARE GROUND.--A SNOWLESS REGION.--KRASNOYARSK. "You have been in China, I believe," said Mr. Hegeman, during the pause that followed the story of how the Russian and Chinese merchants circumvented the stipulations of the treaty. [Illustration: SCENE IN A CHINESE TEMPLE.] "Oh yes," Frank responded. "We were at Peking, which is, I think, only eight hundred miles from Kiachta. We went from Peking to the Great Wall of China, so that we were less than seven hundred miles from the point where you called on the Sargootchay. You can learn about our journey in 'The Boy Travellers in Japan and China.'" "I shall read the book with great pleasure," was the reply, "now that I have met the youths whose travels are described in it. As you have seen the Chinese at home, and know their manners and customs, I won't take your time by telling you what I saw in Mai-mai-chin, which is just like any other Chinese city in nearly every respect. "I may add that it is said to be the cleanest town in all China. It is only half a mile square, carefully laid out, and its streets are swept daily. Only the merchants and their employés, with a small garrison of soldiers, are allowed to live there, and consequently there is no poor population such as you always find in the other cities of the Empire." "That must be a great relief," Fred remarked. "Wherever we went in China we saw so much degradation and suffering that it destroyed a great deal of the pleasure of the journey." "I didn't see a beggar in Mai-mai-chin," continued Mr. Hegeman, "nor anybody who looked like one. There were plenty of laborers employed in handling the tea and other merchandise, but they all appeared to be well cared for. Outside the town there was quite a camp of Mongolians with their camel-trains, which are employed in the transportation of goods across the great desert of Gobi. "The Sargootchay invited me to dinner, and I went there with the Governor of Kiachta and some of his officers. The Sargootchay was polite, and we tried to talk, but had a good deal of difficulty in doing so on account of the numerous translations. "What I thought in my own language I said in French to one of my Russian friends. He spoke in Russian to his Russian-Mongol interpreter, who spoke in Mongol to the Mongol-Chinese interpreter of the Sargootchay. Remarks and responses thus had to pass through four tongues to reach their destination. [Illustration: THEATRE AT MAI-MAI-CHIN.] "The dinner was probably like what you had at Peking or Canton, and so I will not take the time to describe it. After dinner we went to the theatre, where we sat under a canopy and witnessed a performance which included, among other things, a procession of fictitious wild beasts. That they were very fictitious was shown by the accident of the tiger's mask falling off and revealing the head of an astonished man. [Illustration: THE TIGER.] "The thermometer was below the freezing-point, and as the theatre was in the open air, I was very glad that the performance was short. "From Kiachta I returned to Verckne Udinsk, and then proceeded to Irkutsk by way of Lake Baikal. This lake is said to be the largest body of fresh water in Asia. It is four hundred miles long by about fifty broad, and is fourteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. The quantity of water flowing into it is said to be ten times as much as passes from it by its outlet, the Angara River. What becomes of the other nine-tenths is a mystery that has puzzled many scientific men; none of them have been able to establish a theory which the others have not completely upset. "I crossed the lake in a steamboat, and during the voyage listened eagerly to the description of the winter passage which is made on the ice. I will give it as nearly as I can remember in the words of my informant, a gentleman who filled the position of Superintendent of Public Instruction in Eastern Siberia: [Illustration: A NATURAL ARCH ON LAKE BAIKAL.] "'The lake does not freeze over until quite late in the autumn, and when it does the whole surface is congealed in a single night. In a few days the ice is from three to six feet thick, and perfectly transparent. The first time I crossed it was from the western to the eastern shore. The former is mountainous, while the latter is low and flat. As we began our ride the land on the other side was quite invisible, and it seemed to me very much like setting out in a sleigh for a voyage from Queenstown to New York. When I leaned over and looked downward, it was like gazing into the depths of the ocean. It was not until I alighted and stood on the firm ice that I could dispel the illusion that we were gliding over the unfrozen surface of the lake, as the natives believe its guardian spirit walks upon the waters without sinking beneath them. "'At night every star was reflected as in a mirror, and I saw the heavens above me, beneath me, and all around. As the rising moon lighted up the faint horizon of ice and sky, I could half believe I had left the world behind me, and was moving away through the myriads of stars towards the centre of another solar system distinct from our own.' "The natives have many superstitions concerning the Baikal," Mr. Hegeman continued. "In their language it is the 'Holy Sea,' and they consider it sacrilege to call it a lake. It is very deep, soundings of two thousand feet having been made without finding bottom. It is more like a sea than a lake in some of its peculiarities; gulls and other ocean birds fly over it, and it is the only body of fresh water on the globe where the seal abounds. There are banks of coral in some parts of it, in spite of the high northern latitude and the constant coldness of the water. The natives say that nobody is ever lost in the lake; any one drowned in its waters is thrown up on the shores." "It must be a long drive from one side of the lake to the other," one of the youths remarked. "It is, indeed," was the reply. "Formerly they had a station on the ice in the middle of the lake, which was removed at the approach of spring. One season the ice broke up unexpectedly, and the entire station, with all its men and horses, was swallowed up. Since that time no station has been kept there in winter, and the entire journey across, about fifty-five miles, is made without a change. The horses are carefully selected, and as the road is magnificent they go at great speed, stopping only two or three times for a rest of a few minutes. [Illustration: CAVERNS ON LAKE BAIKAL.] "The western shore is mountainous, and in places very picturesque. There are steep cliffs that come down to the water, and in some of these cliffs you find caverns and arches which recall the pictured shores of Lake Superior. Earthquakes are not unfrequent, and many persons believe that the lake occupies the crater of an extinct volcano whose internal fires are determined to keep themselves in remembrance. A village on the shore of the lake was destroyed by one of the shocks. Half of it was carried below the level of the water, and the other half thrown up to a considerable height above its former position. "So much for this remarkable lake. From the western shore to Irkutsk (about forty miles) the road follows near the bank of the Angara, which is very swift. The river does not freeze until after the lake has been covered with ice, and for two or three miles below the point where it emerges from the lake it never freezes even in the severest winters. There is a great rock in the stream at this point which is regarded with superstition by the aboriginal inhabitants. They perform religious ceremonies when passing it, and formerly it was a place of sacrifice. Hundreds, if not thousands, of men, women, and children have been tossed from this rock to be drowned in the swift current flowing below it. "It had been my original plan to reach Irkutsk on wheels, and remain there till the winter roads were formed, so that I could continue from that city in a sleigh. A snow-storm began an hour before I reached the city, and indicated that I had made a very good calculation; it cleared up soon after we passed the gate-way, and for several days thereafter the weather was delightful. My reception was most cordial; Americans were rare visitors in the capital of Eastern Siberia, and I was the first that many of the people had ever seen." One of the youths remarked that he believed Irkutsk was a city of considerable size and importance. [Illustration: PART OF IRKUTSK.] "It is the largest city in Siberia," said Mr. Hegeman, "and has a population of about thirty-five thousand. The Governor-general of Eastern Siberia lives there. He has many officers attached to his staff. There are many wealthy citizens. The houses are large, well built, and furnished, and the style of living is liberal. "The winter opens with a long list of balls, parties, dinners, concerts, and other festivities, which are kept up until the coming of the Lenten season. Every family keeps open house through the winter, and it is customary to drop in whenever one chooses, and take tea at eight o'clock. There is no formality about the matter. One of the ladies of the house presides at the _samovar_, and the others of the party are scattered around the parlors wherever it is most convenient or agreeable to be. My recollections of Irkutsk are of the most pleasant sort, and I greatly regret the place is so far away that one cannot easily revisit it. [Illustration: VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL SQUARE IN IRKUTSK.] "Since I was there Irkutsk has suffered by a fire that destroyed more than half the buildings, and caused a vast amount of distress. For a time it was thought the city would not be rebuilt, but I hear that it is being restored very rapidly, and in a few years will be more attractive than it was before the conflagration.[5] [5] The fire occurred on July 6th and 7th, 1879. About thirty-six hundred buildings were destroyed, of which one hundred and more were of stone or brick, and the rest of wood. Six Russian churches were burned, and also two synagogues, one Catholic and one Lutheran church; five bazaars, the meat-market, museum, club-house, custom-house, and other public edifices were consumed. The loss was about fifteen millions of dollars, and many persons formerly in good circumstances were rendered penniless. The wealthy inhabitants who escaped loss or ruin gave liberally to relieve the general distress, and the Government made substantial provision for the unemployed. [Illustration: DRESSED FOR THE ROAD.] "When the winter roads were reported in a condition for travelling I began my preparations for leaving Irkutsk on a sleigh-ride of thirty-six hundred miles. The thermometer went to twenty degrees below zero soon after the first fall of snow, and my Russian friends told me to prepare for forty below. Under their advice I employed a tailor who knew his business, and when his work was completed my room resembled a clothing store of modest proportions. Here is what I bought: A sheepskin coat with the wool inside; the garment fell below my knees, was without a collar, and buttoned tight around the neck. It was intended for wearing outside my ordinary suit of clothing. Outside of this was what the Russians call a _dehar_; it was made of deer-skin, with the hair outward, and as I walked it swept the floor like a lady's ball-dress. The sleeves were six inches longer than my arms, and very inconvenient when I wished to pick up any small article; the collar was a foot wide, and when turned up and brought around in front completely concealed my head. Then I had a fur cap, circular in shape and with lappets for covering the ears. A lady made, from a piece of sable-skin, a mitten for my nose. "For my foot-gear I discarded my leather boots. Outside of my ordinary socks I had a pair of squirrel-skin socks with the fur inside, sheepskin stockings with the wool inside and reaching to the knee, and outside of these were deer-skin boots, with the hair outside, and reaching up nearly to the junction of my lower limbs. Added to these garments for excluding cold was a robe of sheepskins with the wool on, and backed with heavy cloth. It was seven feet square, and something like a dozen skins were required for making it. At one end it was shaped into a sort of bag for receiving the feet." Fred suggested that such a costume must be very inconvenient for walking, and it must be no easy matter to enter and leave a sleigh when thus wrapped for a cold night. "You are quite right," said Mr. Hegeman; "it is the work of a minute or more to turn over at night and change one's position, excepting, of course, when the sleigh turns over first." "Did that happen often?" "Fortunately not," was the reply, "but the few experiences of this kind that I had were quite sufficient. One night we were upset while going at full speed down a hill. I was asleep at the time, and without the least warning found myself in a mass of baggage, hay, furs, and snow. My first thought was that an earthquake had hit us, and it was several seconds before I realized what had happened. One of the horses broke loose and ran away; the driver mounted the other and went after the fugitive, and for half an hour my companion and myself were left alone with the sleigh and its contents. We kept ourselves busy trying to get things to rights, and as we had only the light of the stars to work by, we did not get along rapidly. "We found one of the shafts and also a fender broken; otherwise the vehicle had suffered no material damage. But I'm getting ahead of the story. "I arranged to leave Irkutsk with some Russian friends who were going to Krasnoyarsk, the next provincial capital. After getting my furs, the next thing was to buy a sleigh, and again I took advice. [Illustration: A VASHOK.] "There is a sleigh called a _vashok_, which is much like a small omnibus. It has doors at the side and is very capacious, but it has the disadvantage that you are completely enclosed in it, and can see nothing of the country you are passing through. A better vehicle is the _kibitka_, a sort of tarantasse on runners, and suggestive of the American chaise in the arrangement of its front. There is a hood which can be lowered and fastened to an apron rising from the wooden box, in which your feet are pushed when you enter the vehicle. By day you can see the country and enjoy the fresh air, and at night or in storms you close the hood and are very well protected from the weather. Ladies and invalids prefer the vashok, while healthy men have a decided liking for the kibitka. [Illustration: MY KIBITKA.] "At the rear of the kibitka there is usually a frame of poles, covered with a net of half inch rope. It is a convenient receptacle for extra baggage, and also serves to break the force of horses running against the sleigh from behind. "The driver of the vashok sits on a seat much like that of an ordinary carriage, while on the kibitka he is seated on the boxed front, with his feet hanging over the side. The position is one that requires constant vigilance to prevent falling off. The driver of a vashok might possibly sleep a little without danger, but not so the driver of a kibitka. "My kibitka was made in European Russia, and was said to have travelled six thousand miles before I owned it. In my possession it went thirty-six hundred miles, and was certainly good for several thousand more. In the whole ride it cost me about five dollars for repairs, principally to the shafts and fenders. I gave eighty roubles for the sleigh in Irkutsk, and sold it at Nijni Novgorod for ten. [Illustration: FAREWELL TO IRKUTSK.] "The day of my departure was spent in making farewell calls and getting the baggage in readiness. A Russian gentleman was to accompany me in my sleigh; two ladies, mother and daughter, were to be in another; and two servants of the ladies, a man and a maid, were to be in a third. The ladies lived in Irkutsk, and we were to dine at their house and start from it. At the appointed time we went there. "There was a gay party at the dinner, and when it was over the starting signal was given. All present seated themselves around the parlor, and a few moments were given to silent prayer, the travellers asking, and the others wishing for them, a safe journey. On rising, all who professed the religion of the Eastern Church made the sign of the cross before the _ikon_, or holy picture, and bowed towards it. Every true Russian scrupulously observes this ceremony before starting on a journey, whether by land or water. "The Angara sweeps gracefully around two sides of Irkutsk, and many of the houses are on the bank. There is a swinging ferry to connect the opposite shores; the boat is at the end of a strong cable, anchored nearly a mile up the stream, and it is swung across through the force of the current against its sides. Starting for Moscow it is necessary to cross the river, and I was told there would be some friends at the ferry to see me off. We had a good deal of seeing off, as nearly a dozen sleighs, filled with friends of my companions, were to accompany us to the first station. "When we reached the bank it was the close of the day; in fact, dusk was about coming on. The ferry-boat was coming from the other shore. I looked, and saw it was dressed in flags and Chinese lanterns; I looked again, and there were American flags!--four American flags and one Russian. It was the first time my national standard had ever been hoisted at Irkutsk. "There was a lump in my throat and a film over my eyes as I raised my cap and tried to give three cheers. My voice proved to be husky, and the effort was not crowned with distinguished success. It was a surprise planned by several of my Russian friends; when it was all over, I remembered how one of the ladies had asked me several days before how the American flag was made, and obtained from me a drawing showing the arrangement of stripes and stars. There wasn't an American flag in Irkutsk, and they had caused these to be made for the occasion." "What a hospitable people they must be at Irkutsk!" said Frank. Fred echoed the sentiment, and so did Doctor Bronson. The latter said it was only those who had been a long time from home who could appreciate the feeling that comes over a man when he sees his country's flag thus displayed. "After many expressions of good-will and good wishes for everybody, and hand-shakings without number, our sleighs were driven on the ferry-boat, and we swung across the Angara. At the first station we made a merry party till a late hour; then the friends who came to see us off returned to Irkutsk, while we travellers took to our sleighs and went comfortably to sleep, while our horses dashed gayly over the smooth road. "For the first fifty miles after leaving Irkutsk the road follows the bank of the Angara; at times we were close to the dark waters, and never far away from them. A dense fog, or frost-cloud, lay on the river; the night was cold, and the moisture congealed on everything where it could find a resting-place. In the morning every part of my sleigh save the running portion was white with hoar-frost. Each little fibre projecting from the canvas and matting that formed the cover had been turned to a stalactite or a stalagmite, and the head of every nail and bolt resembled oxydized silver. Horses were white without regard to their natural color, and even the garments of the drivers had come in for their share of the congelation. [Illustration: WORK OF THE FROST-KING.] "Many times afterwards I had occasion to remark the beauties of the work of the frost-king. Houses and fences were cased in ice, its thickness varying with the condition of the weather. Trees and bushes were covered with crystals, and in the morning sunlight they sparkled as though coated with diamonds. Sometimes the trees resembled fountains caught and frozen when in full action. The pictured delineations of the frost had all the varieties of the kaleidoscope, but without its colors. "During the night I slept well, in spite of several severe thumps received from sleighs going in the other direction. Russian sleighs are so built that two of them can run together with considerable force without serious consequences. Look at the picture of a vashok and you will understand it. "The runners are about thirty inches apart, and generally shod with iron. On each side there is a fender, which consists of a stout pole fastened to the forward end of the runner, and extending downward and outward to the rear, where it is about two feet from the runner and held by strong braces. On a level surface it is just clear of the snow, but when the vehicle tips ever so little the fender sustains the weight and prevents an overturn. When two sleighs moving in opposite directions come together, the fenders slip against each other like a pair of fencing foils. "Occasionally the shock of meeting is so severe that the fenders are broken. An accident of this kind happened one day to my kibitka, the fender on one side being completely torn off. At the next station I summoned a carpenter and had the missing fender restored and made stronger than it was before." Frank asked how the traveller's baggage was carried in a Siberian sleigh? "Baggage is spread over the bottom of the sleigh," said Mr. Hegeman, in reply to the question. "Wooden and other solid trunks must be discarded, and in their place the Russians have what they call _chemidans_. The chemidan is made of soft leather, very broad and flat, and must not be filled with fragile articles. For ladies' bonnets and other crushable things there are chemidans which more resemble the packing-case of a framed picture than anything else; they fit easily into the bottom of a sleigh or tarantasse, and are strong enough to bear the weight of the traveller. Baggage is spread over the bottom of the vehicle, and the chinks and crevices are filled with straw or hay to make as level a surface as possible. Over this is spread a rug of sheepskins. There is no seat as in an ordinary vehicle, but you sit there very much as you would on the carpet in the corner of a room. Each traveller has a corner of the sleigh, and wedges himself into a comfortable position by means of pillows; he may lie down, recline, or sit bolt upright as he chooses." "Did you carry your provisions for the road, or could you rely upon the stations to furnish them?" Fred inquired. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A RUSSIAN INN.] "We could rely upon the stations for the _samovar_ with hot water, and for bread and eggs," was the reply, "the same as in the tarantasse journey I have already described, but everything else that we wanted had to be carried along. We had our own tea and sugar, likewise our roast-beef, cabbage-soup, and _pilmania_." "What is pilmania?" "The best thing imaginable for this kind of travelling. It consists of a piece of cooked meat--beef or mutton--about the size of a grape, seasoned and wrapped in a thin covering of dough, and then rolled in flour. We had at starting nearly a bushel of these dough-covered meat-balls frozen solid and carried in a bag. When we reached a station where we wished to dine, sup, or breakfast, we ordered the _samovar_, and said we had pilmania, before getting out of the sleigh. A pot of water was immediately put on the fire and heated to the boiling-point; then a double handful of our pilmania was dropped into the pot, the water was brought to the boil again and kept simmering for a few minutes. The result was a rich meat-soup which Delmonico could not surpass. "The bag containing the frozen pilmania seemed to be filled with walnuts. Our cabbage-soup was in cakes like small bricks, and our roast-beef resembled red granite. We carved the beef with a hatchet, and then thawed out the slices while waiting for the _samovar_. We had partridges cooked and frozen. With all the articles I have named for dinner, what more could we wish, especially when we had appetites sharpened by travelling in the keen, pure air of Siberia?" "Wasn't there danger, while you were in the stations eating your meals, that things would be stolen from the sleigh?" was the next interrogatory by one of the youths. [Illustration: MAIL-DRIVER AND GUARD.] "I had fears of that before starting," was the reply, "but my friends assured me that thefts from vehicles on the post-roads were very rare. There were always several employés of the station moving about, or engaged in harnessing or unharnessing the teams, so that outsiders had little chance to pilfer without being discovered. The native Siberians have a good reputation for honesty, and the majority of those exiled for minor offences lead correct lives. According to my experience, the Siberians are more honest than the inhabitants of European Russia. After passing the Ural Mountains we always employed somebody to watch the sleigh while we were at meals in the station, which we did not do while in Siberia. "The gentleman who rode with me was an officer in the Russian service; he, like myself, carried a second-class paderojnia, but the ladies had only a third-class one. On the second day of our journey, just as we had finished dinner and our teams were ready to start, it was announced that the post with five vehicles was approaching. We donned our furs very quickly, while our servants gathered up our part of the dinner equipment. Leaving enough money on the table to pay for what we had received from the station, we bundled into our vehicles and hastened away. There was no danger of our losing the two teams which had been secured on the second-class paderojnias, but we were not at all certain about the other. If there had not been sufficient horses at the station for the post, our third team would have been taken from us, and we might have waited for hours before obtaining horses. The best way of solving the problem was to be out of the way when it came up for solution. As the man said of a railway accident, 'Presence of mind is good, but absence of body is better.' [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF A SIBERIAN VILLAGE.] "We obtained excellent speed from the horses where the roads were good, as we gave a fee to the drivers at the end of their routes, proportioning it according to the character of their service. My sleigh generally took the lead, and we always promised a liberal gratuity for extra rate of progress. The regulations require that vehicles not on Government service shall go at a pace of ten versts (six and two-third miles) an hour, provided the roads are in good condition. If a driver just came up to the regulations and no more, we gave him eight or ten copecks; if he was accommodating and energetic, we increased his gratuity accordingly. Fifteen copecks was a liberal reward, twenty munificent, twenty-five princely, and thirty imperial. We went at breakneck pace where the roads permitted, and often where they did not. Occasionally we stimulated the drivers to a race, and then our progress was exciting, as well as dangerous. "The post was carried twice a week each way, and we frequently encountered it. The bags contained merchandise in addition to letters and newspapers, as the Government does a sort of express business through the post-office, to the great convenience of the public. This accounted for the large number of vehicles employed. Travellers may purchase tickets and have their carriages accompany the post, but in so doing they are liable to a good many extortions. Each convoy is accompanied by a postilion or guard, who is responsible for its security; he is usually a soldier, and must be armed to repel robbers. Sometimes these postilions were so stuck around with pistols that they resembled travelling arsenals, and must have been very dangerous to themselves." Frank asked how many horses were required for the service of the post at each station. "The rules require each station-master to keep ten troikas, or thirty horses, ready for use; many stations had forty or fifty horses each, and the villages could generally supply any reasonable demand after those in the station were exhausted. Fourteen _yemshicks_ (drivers) are kept at every station; they are boarded by the smotretal, and receive about four dollars each a month, in addition to whatever gratuities they can pick up. When the post was expected they generally whispered that fact to our man-servant, so that we could get away as soon as possible. They preferred our service to that of the post, as we could be relied upon for gratuities, while none were obtainable from the inanimate bags of the Government mail. "Our good road lasted for two days and into the early hours of the third; then the snow became very thin, and at times we were dragged over bare ground for considerable distances. From very cold the weather turned to warm, and threatened to spoil our provisions as well as the roads. "Winter is by far the best time for travelling in Siberia, though at first thought one would suppose the summer preferable. In summer the weather is hot, there are clouds of dust when no rain falls, and long stretches of mud when it does; there are swarms and swarms of mosquitoes, flies, and all sorts of winged things that trouble traveller and horses to a terrible degree. There is one kind of fly that drives the horses into a frenzy, so that they sometimes break away from the carriages or become unmanageable. A Russian gravely told me that this Siberian horsefly could bite through an iron stove-pipe without hurting his teeth, but I'm inclined to doubt it. [Illustration: SOLDIERS IN SIBERIAN FERRY-BOATS.] "Then, too, there are many streams to be crossed by fording or ferrying, and often there are long delays at the ferries. Fresh provisions can only be carried for a day or two at most, and a traveller must load his vehicle with a liberal stock of canned goods or run the risk of a very hard time. The frost seals up the rivers, causes the mosquitoes, flies, dust, mud, and kindred annoyances to disappear, and preserves your provisions for an indefinite period, except when a 'thaw' comes on. If you ever make a journey through Siberia, by all means make it in winter. "The last hundred miles of our ride, from Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk, was made over more bare ground than snow. In some places we had five or six horses to each carriage, and even then our progress was slow. Fortunately it became cold again, but the sky was cloudless; we longed for snow to cover the ground and improve the condition of the roads. "The last morning we took breakfast at a station fifty versts from Krasnoyarsk, and learned that for the last thirty versts before reaching the city there was absolutely no snow. Very curiously the snow extended up to the door of the station, and disappeared not more than a yard beyond it! Looking one way there was bare ground; looking the other the road was good for sleighing. [Illustration: VIEW OF KRASNOYARSK FROM THE OPPOSITE BANK OF THE YENISEI.] "Over cakes and tea we arranged our programme, which resulted in the ladies leaving their vashok until their return to Irkutsk, and riding into town on a telega. My sleigh and the other were unloaded, the baggage was piled into telegas, the sleighs were mounted on wagons which we hired from the peasants, and with very little trouble the whole difficulty was adjusted. Altogether we were not at the station more than an hour, and at least half that time was taken for lunch." Fred asked how it happened that there was good sleighing in one direction and hardly any snow in the other. "It is a climatic peculiarity," Mr. Hegeman explained, "and is not confined to that locality. You remember I mentioned Chetah, the first provincial capital as you go west from the Amoor River. At Chetah very little snow falls in the winter, and sometimes for the entire year wheels must be used. Krasnoyarsk is in the valley of the Yenisei River, and they told me that very little snow falls within twenty miles of the town, and in some winters none at all. I must leave the scientific men to explain it. "I heard a story at Krasnoyarsk of an Englishman who was travelling alone through Siberia a few winters before the time of my visit. Finding no snow there on his arrival, he decided to wait until it fell, and the roads would be good enough for him to proceed. He waited days and days, but no snow. The days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, but still no snow. He remained sullenly at the hotel or wandered about the streets; the hotel-keeper did not enlighten him, as he was a good customer, and the stranger did not seek counsel of any one else. He might have been there to this day had he not met in the hotel a fellow-countryman who was travelling eastward. The latter explained the climatic conditions of the place to his long-detained compatriot, and then the latter made arrangements for proceeding on his journey. "Before I forget it," continued Mr. Hegeman, "let me say that the Russians have several songs in which the delights of sleighing are described. Here is one of them, which may possibly need the explanation that the duga is the yoke over the shaft-horse's neck, and Valdai is the place where the most famous bells of Russia are cast. You already know that a troika is a team of three horses harnessed abreast-- "'Away, away, along the road, The fiery troika bounds; While 'neath the duga, sadly sweet, The Valdai bell resounds. "'Away, away, we leave the town, Its roofs and spires, behind, The crystal snow-flakes dance around As o'er the steppe we wind. "'Away, away, the glittering stars Shine greeting from above; Our hearts beat fast as on we glide, Swift as the flying dove.' "I will tell you of a sleigh-ride in which there is less poetry than in the song I have quoted. "An English gentleman was stopping with some Siberian friends, and one day it was proposed to take a ride in a sledge. The Englishman had taken his seat and the driver was about mounting to his place, when the horses made a sudden start and dragged the reins from the driver's hands. [Illustration: A DANGEROUS RIDE.] "All that the Englishman could do was to hold on, and this he did to the best of his ability. The horses made straight for a ravine two or three hundred feet deep; the unfortunate passenger and his friends thought he was going to certain death, but as they reached the edge of the ravine the horses whirled about and ran in the opposite direction. "The sledge in turning was swung over the abyss, and hung for an instant in the air; the team ran two or three miles before it was stopped by one of the horses stumbling among some logs. Severely bruised and with his hand half crushed, the Englishman got out of the sledge, and concluded he had had all the riding he desired for that day at least." CHAPTER XIX. POSITION AND CHARACTER OF KRASNOYARSK.--A LESSON IN RUSSIAN PRONUNCIATION.--MARKET SCENE.--SIBERIAN TREES.--THE _OUKHABA_.--A NEW SENSATION.--ROAD-FEVER AND ITS CAUSE.--AN EXCITING ADVENTURE WITH WOLVES.--HOW WOLVES ARE HUNTED.--FROM KRASNOYARSK TO TOMSK.--STEAM NAVIGATION IN SIBERIA.--BARNAOOL.--MINES OF THE ALTAI.--TIGERS AND TIGER STORIES.--THE _BOURAN_.--ACROSS THE BARABA STEPPE.--TUMEN AND EKATERINEBURG.--FROM EUROPE TO ASIA.--PERM, KAZAN, AND NIJNI NOVGOROD.--END OF THE SLEIGH-RIDE. Frank asked what was meant by the word Krasnoyarsk: was it derived from a river, a mountain, or did it belong to an individual? "_Krasnoe_," said Mr. Hegeman, "means 'red,' and Krasnoyarsk gets its name from the red cliffs of the Yenisei on which it stands. All around the town the soil is of a reddish hue, and so are the hills that form the horizon in every direction. The Yenisei is a fine river, one of the largest in Siberia, and where it passes Krasnoyarsk it is fully half a mile wide. In summer there are two or three steamboats running to the Arctic Ocean from a point a little below Krasnoyarsk; rapids and shoals prevent their coming up to the town. The tributaries of the river are rich in gold deposits, and many of the residents have grown wealthy by gold-mining. "Krasnoyarsk has a population of about twelve thousand, and in a general way is a sort of pocket edition of Irkutsk. It is the capital of the province of Yeniseisk, and the centre of trade for a wide extent of country. Markets, churches, and buildings in general are like those of Irkutsk, and there is an appearance of prosperity throughout the place." Fred asked how it happened that the names of nearly all the towns in Siberia ended in "sk." They had been hearing about Irkutsk, Yeniseisk, Selenginsk, and he didn't know how many others. Dr. Bronson came to the young man's relief as follows: "I think you learned in St. Petersburg that the termination 'sk' is equivalent to 'of' in English?" "Certainly," replied Fred, "I learned that 'vitch' means 'son of.' Paul Ivanovitch, for example, being Paul, son of Ivan. I understand also that Alexandrovsky was named after Alexander, Petrovski after Peter, Nicolayevsk after Nicholas, and so on through the list of Russian saints and emperors. But I've not heard of any distinguished personages with the names I've just quoted belonging to towns or cities." [Illustration: BEGGAR AT A SIBERIAN STATION.] "These Siberian names really assist the memory in a geographical way," the Doctor answered, "as they tell us where the town is located. Selenginsk is on the Selenga River; Irkutsk is on the Irkut, where it empties into the Angara; Yeniseisk (province) is in the valley of the Yenisei, and the town of that name is on the river's bank. In the same way Omsk is on the Om, Tomsk on the Tom, Tobolsk on the Tobol, Irbitsk on the Irbit, and Kansk on the Kan. The list could be extended to great length." "I must make a note of that," said Fred, "as it will be of use to students of geography in the schools at home. But what hard words they are to pronounce!" "They are not as difficult as they seem at first sight," said the Doctor. "The chief difficulty comes from our knowing they are Russian, and expecting they will twist our tongues. Three consonants together are terrible--in Russian; in English they are easy enough." "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Hegeman. "After I went to America, on my return from Siberia, many of my friends complained of the jaw-breaking names of the places I had visited, and declared they never could speak them. A lady of my acquaintance tried in vain to pronounce Irkutsk; its three consonants, _t_, _s_, and _k_, were too much for her, but she had not the slightest difficulty in asking me about the fasts and feasts of the Church. The _s_, _t_, and _s_ of 'fasts' and 'feasts' are consonants, and just as difficult of pronunciation as the others; but the one set is Russian and the other 'English, you know.' "Let me suggest an easy way of wrestling with the Russian terminals _tsk_, _nsk_, _msk_, and the like: "If you're struggling with Irkutsk take the word 'coot,' which is perfectly familiar to you. Put an _s_ to it and make 'coots,' and then a _k_ to that and make 'cootsk' or 'kutsk.' With the prefix _er_ you have the capital of Eastern Siberia before you. "In the same way dispose of Kansk by building up the word 'can' till you have reached the end. The other terminals which seem so difficult may be rendered perfectly innocuous to the organs of speech if kindly and intelligently treated. "To return to Krasnoyarsk and its snowless district. "A description of the place, its buildings, markets, and other features would be nearly a repetition of that of Irkutsk, but on a smaller scale. In the market I was particularly interested in the character and abundance of the fish offered for sale. Among them were pike, sturgeon, perch, and others with which I was familiar, and there was one fish which closely resembled the smelt. Another that I had never before seen had a bill resembling that of a duck and a long and thin body. All these fishes came from the Yenisei or its tributaries; some of them dwell permanently in the river, and others ascend in the summer from the Arctic Ocean. "There is a fish called _omulli_ by the Russians, and evidently a member of the trout family. It lives in the smaller streams of Siberia, and furnishes a caviar that is greatly prized. The omulli's caviar is of a golden color, and quite in contrast with the black caviar made from the roe of the sturgeon. "The Yenisei at Krasnoyarsk has a swift current, and resembles the Mississippi at St. Louis, according to the descriptions they gave me. Of course I could not verify the statement, as the river was frozen over at the time of my visit. The width and volume of the Yenisei gave interest to a story which was told by one of the residents: [Illustration: POLICEMAN AT KRASNOYARSK.] "One of the good citizens of Krasnoyarsk had been attending a wedding on the other side of the river, and started for home rather late at night, with the intention of reaching the ferry about daylight. He was in a telega drawn by two horses; on the way from the wedding he fell asleep, and the horses took their own course. When they reached the river they were doubtless hungry, and impatient to return to their stable. The ferry-boat was on the other side, and the animals did not choose to wait. They plunged in and started across; the telega, being wholly of wood, had sufficient buoyancy to keep it afloat, but the occupant was awakened by the cold bath. Though frightened half to death, he had the good sense to lie perfectly still and make the best of the situation; the hardy beasts took him safely over, but he never cared to repeat the adventure. The few individuals that saw him coming in the early daylight could hardly believe their eyes; and one, at least, thought it was Neptune in his chariot ascending the waters of the Yenisei." "Another illustration of the excellence of the horses of Siberia," said Fred. "I long to travel in that country, and have the experience of riding behind them." Frank asked Mr. Hegeman if there were any high mountains in the neighborhood of Krasnoyarsk. [Illustration: HILLS NEAR A SIBERIAN RIVER.] "There are not," was the reply, "only some low hills and rounded peaks that do not rise to the height and dignity of mountains. I believe most geographers are agreed on applying the term 'mountain' only to elevations of fifteen hundred feet and more, everything below that figure being called a hill. Under this restriction there are no mountains on the road through Siberia between Lake Baikal and the Ural range. Most of the country is flat and uninteresting; sometimes it is a perfectly level plain, and in other places it is undulating like a rolling prairie in Kansas or Nebraska. Along the rivers it is broken by ranges of hills, but as soon as you go back from the rivers you come to the plain again. "Hour after hour, and day after day, we rode over this monotonous country, the landscape, or rather snowscape, presenting very little to attract the eye. This feature of the country makes the Siberian journey a dreary one, not unlike the journey from the Missouri River to the Rocky Mountains before the days of the transcontinental railway." Fred asked if this level part of Siberia was treeless like many portions of our Western country. "There is a vast amount of treeless land," said Mr. Hegeman, in response to the inquiry, "but it is not all of that sort. There are many forests of birch, pine, spruce, and larch. In some localities birch is the only wood for building purposes, in others larch, and in others pine or spruce. Other Siberian trees are willow, fir, poplar, elm, and maple. Central and Southern Siberia are well wooded, but the farther we go towards the north the fewer trees do we find. The plains bordering the Arctic Ocean are treeless; the poplar disappears at 60° north latitude, the birch at 63°, and the pine and larch at 64°." "I thought I had read about a species of cedar that grows over the plains to the far North," said the Doctor, "and that it serves to make that region habitable by furnishing fuel for the natives." "I was about to mention the trailing cedar," said Mr. Hegeman. "The Russians call it _kedrevnik_, and some of the native tribes regard it as a special gift of Providence. It spreads on the ground like a vine, and has needles and cones similar to those of the cedar; the trunks are gnarled and twisted, very difficult to cut or split, but vastly preferable to no wood at all. Thousands of miles of country are covered with the trailing cedar, and in winter it is found by digging in the snow. "On leaving Krasnoyarsk," continued Mr. Hegeman, "I travelled with a gentleman who had been northward to the shores of the Arctic Ocean during the previous summer, he accompanying me in my sleigh, while his own was occupied by a servant and a goodly amount of baggage. For thirty miles there was no snow, and so we mounted our sleighs on wagons and sent them to the beginning of the snow road, while we followed in a telega a few hours after their departure. We overtook them just at the beginning of the snow road, and were glad enough to change from the telega. The vehicle had no springs, and we were shaken in it worse than if tossed in a blanket. The frozen ground was rough, and reminded me of a nutmeg-grater on a Brobdingnagian scale. "We had started with the intention of overtaking the sleighs before sunset, but our slow progress over the rough roads had so delayed us that the evening was well advanced before our destination was reached. The transfer of baggage was made in the moonlight; one or two small articles disappeared in the operation, but whether stolen or accidentally lost we never knew. [Illustration: JUMPING AN "OUKHABA."] "In Irkutsk I had been told that a new sensation awaited me in the Siberian _oukhaba_, and I found it on the first night's travelling after leaving Krasnoyarsk. What do you suppose it was?" Both the youths shook their heads and said they didn't know, while Doctor Bronson preserved a discreet silence. "The oukhaba of the Siberian road," Mr. Hegeman explained, "is the equivalent of the 'hog-wallow' of the American one; the former is formed in the snow, and the latter in the bare ground. It is caused by the snow lying in drifts or ridges when it is blown by the wind, and also by the roads being worn with much travel. The road is a succession of ridges and hollows; the drivers go at full speed, without the slightest regard to the pitching and tossing of the sleigh, and the result is a severe trial of one's nerves. The motion causes a rush of blood to one's head, and develops what the Russians call 'the road-fever.' "I did not escape the road-fever, and to this day I shudder when thinking of this part of my experience, the most disagreeable feature of the journey. My body was sore and stiff; at every jolt it seemed as though the top of my head would fly off; sleep was next to impossible; and when I did manage to slumber, my dreams were something frightful. My temper was spoiled, and a quarrel might have been created with anything and anybody without the least effort. The fever runs its course in two or three days, but may last longer; as long as the roads are bad the inexperienced traveller is liable to it. Sometimes the sleigh made a clear jump of five or six feet, and the wonder was that the vehicle did not go to pieces and leave us hopelessly wrecked." Fred asked if any wolves were seen in this part of the journey or elsewhere in Siberia. "Occasionally we saw wolves," was the reply, "but not often. There are plenty of wolves in Siberia, but they have enough to live upon in the game that abounds everywhere, so that they are not likely to attack travellers. Siberian and American wolves are much alike, but the former are said to be larger and fiercer than their American cousins. "I can tell you some wolf stories, but they do not belong to Siberia. It is only in Western Russia and in Poland that travellers are attacked by wolves, and then only in the severest winters, when game is very scarce and hunger has made the animals desperate." "Please tell us one of those stories," said Frank. "I have read accounts of men being chased by wolves, but have just now forgotten what they were." The request was echoed by Fred, and Mr. Hegeman kindly gratified their wish. "To begin with," said he, "the horses are the object of attack and not the men in the vehicle; but of course when the horses are overpowered the wolves make no distinction and devour everything edible. When desperate they will venture to the farm-yards to kill sheep and cattle. Their favorite article of food, other than wild game, is a pig, and the squealing of a pig is an appeal that no hungry wolf can resist. [Illustration: WOLVES ATTACKING A BUFFALO.] "Advantage of this propensity is taken by those who go out to hunt the wolf for amusement. On a moonlight night two hunters go out with an open sledge drawn by two horses; they carry their guns, with plenty of ammunition, a pig tied by the feet, and a bag of hay, together with furs and robes to keep them warm. When they reach the middle of the forest where the wolves abound, the horses' heads are turned towards home, the bag of hay, fastened to a rope from twenty to forty feet long, is thrown out, and the pig's ear is pinched until the poor creature squeals in his loudest tones. If a wolf is within hearing he comes at once, and if there are other wolves they follow him and his example. The pig's ear is continually twisted; the squealing resounds through the forest, and when the wolves come in sight they mistake the bag of hay for the animal they seek. They rush for it, and as they come within range are shot down. The sleigh does not stop to pick up the game, but continues its course at a walk or slow trot, provided the driver can restrain the terror-stricken horses. The next day the dead wolves, if any, are gathered for the sake of their skins. "Sometimes a dozen or more wolves will be killed in this way in a single night, but more frequently the hunters return empty-handed. Sometimes the wolves come in great numbers, and with so much fierceness that the hunters are obliged to flee for their lives--not always successfully. "And now comes the wolf story I promised; it was told to me by a Russian officer some years ago, and I will endeavor to give it as nearly as possible in his own words. Imagine that he is talking to you as he talked to me: "'I was stopping for a part of the winter at the house of a fellow-officer near Vilna, where he had a large estate. His name was Selmanoff, and he was noted for his excellent horsemanship and his love for all kinds of hunting sport. "'The winter was one of the worst that had been known for a long while, and two or three times we heard of travellers through the forest having been pursued by wolves. Of course this led to a wolf hunt, which Selmanoff proposed and I heartily accepted. "We made our preparations, selecting a broad sledge open all around, and formed of wicker-work, so that it was light as well as strong. We carried two short, smooth-bore guns of large calibre--rifles are not desirable on these hunts, as it is impossible to take accurate aim from the moving sledge in the moonlight. The guns were breech-loaders, and the charge was a heavy one of buck-shot and ball. "We had two horses, young and powerful beasts, and the driver was one of the best on the estate. After dining heartily we started about sunset and drove some twenty miles or so into the middle of the forest, over a good road which had been trodden by the peasants carrying their produce to the market at the nearest town. Our decoy pig lay quietly among the furs, and gave no sign of his presence save an occasional grunt of dissatisfaction at his uncomfortable position. [Illustration: A SIBERIAN WOLF.] "'At the spot where the hunt was to begin we turned about and threw out our bag of hay; then we twisted the pig's ear and he protested with a loud squeal. "'An answering howl came from the forest, and seemingly not a dozen yards away. Another howl and another followed quickly, and then the air was full of them. "'In a minute or so a dark form was revealed on the snow behind us, and making straight for the hay-bag. Selmanoff gave me the first fire, and I took it. The wolf fell at my shot just as he was within a few yards of the bag. [Illustration: SUMMER AND WINTER IN RUSSIA.] "'But another came, and then another, and in a few minutes there were a dozen or more in sight. We shot them as fast as they came within range, but the numbers did not diminish. The shooting and the howling of the wolves frightened the horses, and the driver had a difficult task to restrain them. "'As the wolves increased in number, we saw we were in danger; the extent of the pack was far beyond our expectation, and the long-continued hunger of the brutes had made them very fierce. The shooting of one after another did not seem to restrain their ardor in the least; those that were untouched by our shot dashed madly ahead, and showed a determination to appease their hunger at all hazards. "'Selmanoff told the driver to increase the speed of the horses. He gave the order not a moment too soon. Just as the horses were put to a gallop, several wolves sprang from the forest at our side, and if we had been going slowly they would have easily reached the sleigh. As it was, we passed within a few feet of them, and their howls of angry disappointment rang in our ears. "'We cut the rope that held the hay-bag; it detained our pursuers only a few moments, as they quickly discovered it was not what they wanted. "'On they came again. We loaded and fired as fast as we could; there was no occasion to take accurate aim, as the road behind us was fairly filled with wolves, and it was quite sufficient to point our guns at the dark mass revealed against the snow. "'We had made six or eight miles on our return, when an additional danger that threatened us was suggested by my friend. There was a sharp angle in the road a mile or so ahead of us, and, at the pace we were proceeding, the sledge would certainly be upset in going around the angle. As we approached the point of peril we ceased firing, laid our guns among the furs, ordered the speed of the horses to be slackened--no easy thing to accomplish--and then both of us hung out as far as possible on the inner side of the sledge, to keep it from going over. "'As we made the turn the sledge was poised for some distance on one of its runners, and if we had not taken all the precautions I have named, it would have gone over. From this point was a clear and comparatively straight run homeward of ten or twelve miles, and the horses were put to their best work. They had no need of urging, as they knew the danger that threatened as well as we did. "'One horse stumbled and fell; he was up in an instant, but not before the wolves had actually reached the sledge. One of them jumped directly at it, but as he did so I pressed the muzzle of my gun to his head and fired. Another sprang upon the fallen horse as he was rising to his feet, but was shaken off before he obtained a good hold with his fangs. "'The servants of the chateau heard us coming at full speed and our rapid firing. They knew something was the matter, and as we neared the house they began shouting and waving lanterns. The wolves slackened their speed and gave up the chase, but not until we were within a hundred yards of safety. [Illustration: VILLAGE ON A RUSSIAN ESTATE.] "'We dashed into the court-yard, the gates were closed, and then Selmanoff and I, both fainting from exhaustion after our terrible ride, were assisted from the sledge and into the house. You may be sure that since then I have never wished to undertake a wolf-hunt of this sort.'" "An excellent story," said Frank. "It is certainly better than those wherein people are obliged to draw lots to see who shall be sacrificed to the wolves in order that the others may escape." "I agree with you," said Fred. "There's quite enough of the sensational in having everybody get away safely after an exciting run, instead of being eaten up by their pursuers. If only the wolves are killed it is all right, as they are enemies of the human race, and do no good to any one except to furnish skins for sleigh-robes, rugs, and other useful or ornamental things." It was agreed unanimously that the best known use for a wolf was to convert his skin into something of the kind described. When this decision had been reached, the conversation reverted to the sleigh-ride through Siberia. "We left the road in pursuit of wolves, while travelling westward from Krasnoyarsk," said Mr. Hegeman. "Jumping oukhabas," suggested one of the youths. "Yes, that was it exactly. Well, we jumped oukhabas, rode over bare ground, were caught in a snow-storm, and had a tough time generally till we reached Tomsk, the next provincial capital. It takes its name from the river Tom on which it stands, and is a prosperous place with about twenty thousand inhabitants. "As at Irkutsk, there are many wealthy merchants in the city, and also a fair number of citizens who have made fortunes by mining for gold. The houses are spacious and well-built, and there is a large 'gymnasium,' or high-school, for boys, and an 'institute,' or high-school, for girls. Many private teachers find employment in rich families who prefer educating their children at home. Tomsk may be regarded as the most important place in Siberia next to Irkutsk. "There is a line of water communication between Tomsk and Tumen, a thousand miles to the westward, but of course it is only available in summer. Fifteen or twenty steamboats are engaged in the traffic; they descend the Tom to the Ob, and the Ob to the Irtish, which they ascend to the Tobol. Then they follow the Tobol to the Tura, and the Tura to Tumen. With barges in tow, the journey occupies twelve days; without them it is made in a week. Travellers are so few that it does not pay to run boats for passengers alone, and all the boats in use when I was there were mainly for freight purposes, and had limited space for passengers. If you look at the map of Siberia, you will see that it possesses an excellent system of water communication. [Illustration: A SLIGHT MISHAP.] "The only navigation of the Tom that I saw was by a native who had fallen through a hole in the ice and just crawled out. He stood dripping on the edge for a moment, as though uncertain what to do; then, evidently realizing his danger, he sprang on his sledge and rode away, to reach home before he was frozen solid. "At the suggestion of my companion we decided to go to Barnaool, which lies about three hundred miles south of the main road, and is the centre of the Russian mining region of the Altai Mountains. We remained a day at Tomsk, in order to see the Governor and obtain his permission to leave our route, which was readily granted. "We started in the evening, and forty-four hours later drove into Barnaool and alighted at the hotel. An officer who left Tomsk a few hours in advance of us, kindly notified the station-masters of our approach, and thus caused them to have horses in readiness. If he had not done so we should have been seriously delayed, as the regulations require only three troikas to be kept at the stations on the side road, while ten are maintained along the great route. For the last part of the way the drivers took us to houses of their friends instead of going to the post-stations. The peasants through Siberia have a good many horses, and are glad to earn money in this way by transporting travellers. [Illustration: SUMMER VIEW NEAR BARNAOOL.] "Barnaool is a prosperous town, depending partly upon the gold-mining interest, and partly upon trade with the Kirghese and other people of Central Asia. It has a Club, a Geographical Society, a large and interesting museum, together with smelting-works, factories, and machine-shops connected with the mining interests. Social conversation has a good deal to do with gold and silver and other precious things, and in summer many of the officials are absent at the mining establishments in the mountains. The society is similar to that of Irkutsk, and fully as accomplished and hospitable. They told me I was the first American that had ever been in Barnaool, and I was most heartily welcomed and made to feel at home. "One day a gentleman invited me to call at his house, and said his daughters were under the impression that Americans were black. 'I will not undeceive them,' said he, 'and if they appear astonished when they see you, you will understand it.' "When I called at the house and was presented to the family, I was immediately surrounded by three or four little girls, and they looked with great curiosity at my face. Finally one of them sidled up to her mother and said something, of which I caught the words, '_Nee chorney_' ("Not black")." After Frank and Fred had laughed over this little anecdote, their informant explained that the impression that Americans were black was not confined to the family of this gentleman at the foot of the Altai Mountains. He said he had been told of it on several occasions, not only in Siberia but in European Russia; but it was almost always confined to the lower class of people, or to children who had received their information from servants. "I had an odd experience of this impression about our national color a few years ago," said Doctor Bronson. "It was in a small city of Austria where strangers do not often penetrate, and our countrymen are not as well known as in Vienna and Paris. "I was making a purchase in a shop, and while chatting with the saleswoman she asked my nationality. I told her I was an American. She shook her head doubtingly, and said she thought I must be an Englishman, as I 'didn't look like an American.' "'Why don't I look like an American?' I asked. "'There was an American gentleman here a few months ago,' said she, 'and he was just as black as your hat.' "I didn't follow the topic further," said Doctor Bronson, "but concluded to let her have her own opinion about my national complexion." "One of the most interesting things I saw at Barnaool," said Mr. Hegeman, resuming the subject of conversation, "was the Government Museum. I spent the greater part of a day there, and only had time to glance over the admirable collection. There is a mining department which contains models of all the machinery used in gold-mining, and in many instances the machines themselves. Some of the machines are nearly a hundred years old, and almost identical with those in use to-day. There is a letter from the Empress Elizabeth, bearing her autograph, giving directions about the working of the mines in her time; it is kept in an ivory box on the table around which the Mining Board holds its sessions. The first discoveries of precious metals in the Altai region were made by one of the Demidoffs, who was sent there by Peter the Great. A monument in the public square of Barnaool records his services and keeps his memory green. "There are models of mines similar to those in the Mining School at St. Petersburg, so that the student can see what kind of work is before him. They showed me a steam-engine which is said to have been made at Barnaool in 1764, for the purpose of blowing the furnaces; the director of the museum claimed that it was on the principle adopted by James Watt in 1765, and therefore, he argued, the credit of the improvement upon the old engine of Newcomen should be given to Siberia rather than to Scotland. [Illustration: ATTACKED BY A TIGER.] "Very interesting was the collection of natural history, which included the skins of two enormous tigers killed a few years before in one of the Southern districts of Western Siberia. Both these tigers had histories, and were supposed to be murderers; one of them fell after a long fight in which he killed one of his assailants and wounded two others. The other tiger had sprung upon a man who was riding one horse and leading another; the man escaped by leaving the led horse for the tiger to devour. He rode to the nearest village where he could obtain weapons and assistance, and then returned to the locality of the attack. Carefully creeping through the tall grass, he found the tiger busy over his meal; every few moments he raised his head and paused to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps, but so cautiously did the hunter proceed that he was not heard. "He managed to get within ten yards of the ferocious beast, and then by a well-directed shot stretched him on the ground. The fame he obtained for his prowess, and the money from the sale of the skin to the museum, compensated him for the loss of the horse, but it must be remembered that he ran a great risk in searching for the tiger as he did. [Illustration: BEARCOOTS AND WOLVES.] "There were in the museum some fine specimens (stuffed) of the bearcoot, an enormous eagle of the Altai Mountains. It is considerably larger than the American eagle, and strong enough to kill easily a deer or a wolf. The Kirghese tame these eagles and employ them for hunting purposes, just as hawks were employed in England centuries ago. A bearcoot will swoop down upon a full-grown deer and kill him in a few minutes; a deer running at full speed can be overtaken by a bearcoot in a course of little more than a mile, when he has the advantage of fully a mile at the start. "Sometimes when a pack of wolves has run down a deer and killed it, a pair of bearcoots will appear and take possession of the game. Two bearcoots are a match for a dozen wolves, and the latter acknowledge their inferiority by getting out of the way immediately. "Some experiments on the power of the bearcoot to resist poison were made at Barnaool shortly before my visit. Half a grain of curara (deadly poison from Brazil) had no effect beyond increasing the bird's appetite. Four grains of strychnine caused his feathers to tremble fifteen minutes after swallowing the stuff, and five hours later threw him into convulsions from which he recovered next day. A week later seven grains of curara had no effect upon him for two days; then he went into convulsions, which lasted several hours and ended with his death. [Illustration: THE STEPPE IN SUMMER.] "But we are staying too long at Barnaool, and must go to the road again. From Barnaool we went northward and westward to Tumen over the great Baraba Steppe; it is but a steppe from one place to the other, but the distance is a thousand miles, and we were a week in making it. We were caught in a _bouran_, or storm, analagous to the Texas norther or the _bora_ of Trieste. The wind blew violently, the snow whirled in blinding masses; the road was so buried that several times we lost our way, and finally concluded it safest to wait at a station till the storm was over. Happily we were not long delayed. "In summer these _bourans_ or _ouragans_ (a word which is probably of the same origin as _hurricane_) are sometimes so severe that they sweep dry the bed of a small river in a few minutes, and create large clouds of dust as they pass over the land. The one we encountered was from the south, and therefore warm. A northern _bouran_ in winter is something terrific, as the thermometer goes very low and the intense cold added to the wind is destructive to animal life. Men and horses have been lost in these _bourans_, and I was cautioned not to venture to face them if I could avoid doing so. "Many Tartars live on the Baraba Steppe, but we saw few of them, as we changed horses at the houses of the Russian peasants. There was formerly a very small population of Russians on the steppe between Tumen and Tomsk; the Governor-general of Siberia persuaded Catherine the Great to give him all the conscripts of a levy instead of sending them to the army. He settled them with their families in villages along the route across the steppe, and the present population consists of the descendants of these people, together with exiles and voluntary emigrants of the present century. "Grain is produced in abundance on the steppe. Wheat, rye, and oats are often as low as ten or twenty cents a bushel, as there is no market for produce beyond what can be sold to travellers. A railway is one of the hopes of the future, and when it comes the steppe will be prosperous. A great deal of hemp and flax is raised there; I bought about sixty feet of half-inch rope for thirty cents at one station, and afterwards learned that I paid too much. Our harness was constantly breaking, and every few days it was necessary to buy a quantity of rope for purposes of repair. A Russian mujik will perform wonders of harness-mending if you give him plenty of rope. "I will not weary you with describing in detail the rest of the long sleigh-ride. Through Tumen we went without delay, and from that place to Ekaterineburg we had no incident of consequence. At Ekaterineburg we stopped a day, and passed several hours among the shops devoted to the sale of semi-precious stones, which are cut into all sorts of fantastic shapes. The town is as famous for these things as is Cologne for the perfumed spirit that bears its name, Naples for coral, or Benares for brass-ware. More than a thousand workmen are engaged by private employers or by the Government in this industry. The _Granilnoi Fabric_, or Government Lapidary Establishment, was closed at the time of my visit, which happened during Christmas week. I understand it has since been sold, and is now in private hands. [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF ROCK-CRYSTAL.] "Itinerant dealers in the streets offer the cut crystals to strangers, and the waiters at the hotels have stocks of them for sale. The collections at the dealers are a bewildering array of amethyst, beryl, topaz, tourmaline, chalcedony, jasper, aquamarine, malachite, quartz, and other stones. There are seals, paper-weights, beads, vases, statuettes, brooches, buttons, charms, and an endless variety of ornamental things. "There were imitations of leaves, flowers, and grapes tastefully arranged together, and formed of differently colored stones; there were miniature caves and grottos in which the stones were artistically grouped; and there were busts of the Emperor of Russia and other high personages in the Empire, together with busts of the reigning sovereigns of Europe. Learning that I was an American, the proprietor of one establishment showed me a half-finished bust of President Lincoln cut in topaz and about six inches high. "We left Ekaterineburg one evening, and about midnight passed the ridge of the Ural Mountains and entered European Russia. The Urals at this point are a succession of low hills covered with fir-trees, and as you look at the range from Ekaterineburg you would not suspect you were in the neighborhood of mountains. North and south of this point the mountains become more steep, but they nowhere attain to great heights. All this part of the Urals is rich in minerals; there are extensive mines of iron, copper, and gold, those of iron being of the greatest, and the gold-mines of the least importance. "A very large part of all the iron used in Russia comes from the Urals, and the same is the case with the copper. The copper-money of the Empire is coined at the _Moneta Fabric_, or mint, at Ekaterineburg, and from an immense foundery a few miles away comes the Russian sheet-iron which is so popular in America for the manufacture of parlor stoves and stove-pipe. The Urals contain the only mines where malachite is found in quantities of any consequence, and when you look at a piece of this beautiful oxide of copper you can be almost absolutely certain that it came from the neighborhood of Ekaterineburg. A mass of malachite weighing more than four hundred tons was found there about the middle of the present century, the largest single piece ever discovered. [Illustration: MONUMENT AT THE BOUNDARY.] "At the boundary between European and Asiatic Russia there is a stone monument with the word EUROPE on one side and ASIA on the other. It is only seventeen hundred feet above the level of the sea, and was erected to commemorate the visit of the Emperor Alexander I. to his Siberian dominions. I stepped from the sleigh and stood for a few moments with a foot in either continent, but though I made careful observation I could not discover any difference between the soil, climate, productions, manners, customs, or social conditions of the Occident and Orient of the Old World. [Illustration: WESTERN SLOPE OF THE URAL MOUNTAINS.] "Down the Western slope of the Urals we drove as fast as our horses could carry us, making brief halts to change horses at the stations, jumping oukhabas that threatened to shake us and our vehicles to pieces, repelling the advances of beggars that solicited us at every stopping-place, riding sometimes for many miles at a time between double rows of birch-trees which the Government has planted to mark the roads and prevent the snow from drifting, and now and then coming temporarily to grief through the breaking of our harness. We found the stations more numerous and more commodious than in Asiatic Russia, the country more densely peopled, and as the days of fasting had given way to days of feasting, we found an abundance of provisions wherever we stopped. We carried now only our tea and sugar, as everything else was easy to procure. "We passed through Perm at night and in a snow-storm, and my recollections of the place are consequently few. From Kazan my road lay along the frozen surface of the Volga to Nijni Novgorod, where the sleigh-ride was to terminate. "Sometimes the sleigh was left on the ice of the river while the drivers went to the station on the bank to change horses, and sometimes it was driven up the sloping road and then down again. Going up was all right, but descending was occasionally perilous. [Illustration: DESCENDING A HILL SIDE ROAD.] "The sleigh manifested a tendency to go faster than the horses; there was usually no protecting wall or rail at the outer edge of the slope, and more than once we narrowly escaped being pitched down a steep cliff of frozen earth to the solid ice fifty or a hundred feet below. At such times the way of safety lay in forcing the horses ahead, in the hope that they would overcome the sideling motion of the sleigh. As there was a chance that they might stumble, and throw horses, sleigh, passengers, baggage, and driver all in a heap, the alternative was nearly as bad as the preliminary danger. [Illustration: BAPTIZING THROUGH THE ICE.] "On the 6th of January we passed several places where baptizings through the ice were in progress. This is one of the days that the Church consecrates to baptismal ceremonies, and throughout the Empire many thousands of devout worshippers are plunged into the icy water. We did not stop to witness the ceremony, but caught a glimpse of a priest reading from a book, while another was holding by the hands a man whose head just rose above the surface of the water. As fast as the baptized ones emerged from the hole through the ice they ran rapidly to the village, a short distance away. "There at last are the domes of Nijni Novgorod, and there I say farewell to my sleigh. [Illustration: END OF THE SLEIGH-RIDE.] "I have passed two hundred and nine stations, with as many changes of horses and drivers. More than seven hundred horses have been attached to my sleigh, and drawn me over a road of all degrees of goodness and badness. In forty days from Irkutsk I have spent sixteen in the towns and villages on the way. I have slept twenty-six nights in my sleigh, with the thermometer varying all the way from 35° above zero to 44° below, and have passed through four severe storms and perhaps a dozen small ones. "Including the detour to Barnaool, my sleigh-ride was thirty-six hundred miles long. From Stratensk around by Kiachta to Irkutsk I travelled about fourteen hundred miles in wheeled vehicles, so that altogether my land journey from the steamboat at Stratensk to the railway at Nijni covers a distance of five thousand miles. "And now," said Mr. Hegeman, in conclusion, "if you want to cross Siberia you can do it more easily than when I made the journey. From Perm, which you can reach by steamboat in summer, there is a railway to Ekaterineburg, and it will shortly be finished to Tumen, if it is not already.[6] From Tumen take a steamboat to Tomsk, if you don't mind roughing it a little, and from Tomsk your land journey need not be terrifying. You can easily make out the rest of the route by taking my own in reverse. Whether you descend the Amoor or cross the Desert of Gobi to Peking, you will have enough of novelty to compensate you for the fatigue." [6] Since the above was written, the author has received a letter from M. Nicolai Ostrowski, Director of the Ural Railway, which says, "Since October 1, 1878, Perm and Ekaterineburg have been united by the Ural Railway. Since January 1, 1886, trains have been running regularly between Ekaterineburg and Tumen. A line is under construction from Samara to Ufa, which will probably be extended to Ekaterineburg or Tcheliabinsk, to form a direct line in the direction of Omsk, the capital of Occidental Siberia." The youths thanked Mr. Hegeman most heartily for the entertaining account he had given them of his journey through Siberia. Doctor Bronson added his acknowledgment to that of the youths, and the thoughts of the party were again turned to what was occurring around them. CHAPTER XX. DOWN THE VOLGA AGAIN.--RUSSIAN RECEPTION CEREMONY.--SIMBIRSK, SAMARA, AND SARATOV.--GERMAN SETTLERS ON THE VOLGA.--DON COSSACKS.--ASTRACHAN.--CURIOUS POPULATION.--VOYAGE ON THE CASPIAN SEA.--THE CASPIAN PETROLEUM REGION.--TANK-STEAMERS.--INTERESTING FACTS AND FIGURES OF THE NEW PETROLIA.--PRESENT PRODUCT OF THE BAKU OIL-FIELDS.--EXCURSION TO BALAKHANI, AND VISIT TO THE OIL-WELLS.--TEMPLES OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.--ANTIQUITY OF THE CASPIAN PETROLEUM REGION.--MARCO POLO AND OTHER AUTHORITIES. While our friends were listening to Mr. Hegeman's account of the journey through Siberia, the boat was continuing steadily on her course down the Volga. One of her passengers was a Russian count on the way to his estate, from which he had been absent for nearly two years. He had notified his people of his coming, and when the steamer stopped at the village where he was to land, there was quite an assemblage ready to meet him. Doctor Bronson ascertained that they would remain at the landing an hour or more, as there was a considerable amount of freight to be put on shore. The party prepared to spend the time on land, and quite unexpectedly Frank and Fred were treated to a curious and interesting spectacle. It was the welcome of the count by his people, in accordance with Russian custom. As he ascended the bank to the village, he was met by a procession of men, women, and children. It was headed by four venerable men with long, flowing beards, and dressed in the sheepskin coats with which we have been made familiar. One of the men in front carried a dish on which was a loaf of bread, and his comrade had another dish filled with salt. One man of the second couple carried a jug or pitcher of water. The Doctor explained to the youths that the presentation of bread, salt, and water was a ceremonial of Russian hospitality of very ancient date. [Illustration: OFFERING OF THE VILLAGERS.] The men bowed low as they approached the count; on his part he urged them to stand upright and regard him as their friend. They halted directly in front of him, and then the bearer of the bread spoke in dignified tones as follows: "We come, most noble master, to give the welcome of our village, and present you such food as we can offer, according to the ancient custom of our country." In a few kindly words the count thanked them for their hospitality, and wished that their lives would be prosperous and happy. Then he cut a slice out of the loaf of bread and ate it, after dipping it in the salt. Next he drank a glass of the water, pouring it from the pitcher with his own hands. When he had finished he again thanked the men for their hospitality, and asked them to give his good wishes to all the people. This ended the ceremony, and the count was then at liberty to enter the carriage that stood waiting, and ride to his house, some distance back from the river. Doctor Bronson explained that bread and salt have a prominent place in Russian ceremonials, not only of welcome, but at weddings and on other occasions. The bread is invariably the rye or black bread of the country, and the guest to whom it is offered would show great rudeness if he declined to partake of it. A knife lies on the top of the loaf; the guest himself cuts the loaf, and must be careful to dip the slice in the salt before placing it in his mouth. In their descent of the Volga, our friends passed a succession of villages on either bank, and occasionally a town or city of importance. The day after leaving Kazan they stopped at Simbirsk, the capital of the province of the same name, and the centre of a considerable trade. It is on the right bank of the river, and has a population of twenty-five or thirty thousand. About a hundred miles farther down the Volga is Samara, which generally resembles Simbirsk, but is larger, and possesses a more extensive commerce. A railway extends from Samara to Orenburg, on the frontier of Siberia. On the other side of the Volga Samara is connected with the railway system which has its centre at Moscow. With railway and river to develop its commerce, it is not surprising that the place is prosperous, and has grown rapidly since the middle of the century. Mr. Hegeman told the youths that many Swiss and Germans were settled along this part of the Volga, and he pointed out some of their villages as the boat steamed on her course. The Government allows them perfect freedom in religious matters, and they have an excellent system of schools which they manage at their own expense and in their own way. In other respects they are under the laws of the Empire, and their industry and enterprise have had a beneficial effect upon their Muscovite neighbors. The first of these settlers came here more than a hundred years ago; their descendants speak both German and Russian, and form quite an important part of the population. Larger than Simbirsk and Samara rolled into one is Saratov, about a hundred miles below the city we have just described. It contains nearly a hundred thousand inhabitants; its houses are well built and spacious, and its streets are unusually broad, even for Russia. Our friends took a carriage-ride through the city, visited several of its sixteen or eighteen churches, and passed an hour or more in one of the factories devoted to the manufacture of leather goods. Frank and Fred thought the churches were fully equal to those of any other Russian city they had seen, with the exception of a few of the most celebrated, and they greatly regretted their inability to make a fuller inspection of the place. But they consoled themselves with the reflection that they had seen the principal cities of the Empire, and the smaller ones could not offer many new and distinctive features. In the province of Saratov they were on the border of the region of the Don Cossacks, and at some of the landings they had glimpses of this primitive people. Their country did not seem to be well cultivated, and Doctor Bronson told the youths that the Don Cossacks were more noted for skill in horsemanship than for patient industry. They prefer the raising of cattle, sheep, and horses to the labor of the field, and though many of them have accumulated considerable wealth they have little inclination for luxurious living. [Illustration: SHOEING AN OX.] An amusing scene at one of the landings was the Cossack method of shoeing an ox. Frank thus describes it: "The poor beast was flung upon his side and firmly held down by half a dozen men, while his legs were tied together in a bunch. Then he was turned upon his back, so that his feet were uppermost, giving the blacksmith an excellent opportunity to perform his work. The blacksmith's 'helper' sat upon the animal's head to keep him from rising or struggling; the unhappy ox indicated his discomfort and alarm by a steady moaning, to which the operators gave not the least attention. [Illustration: KNIFE-WHIP.] "At a shop in one of the villages we bought some souvenirs. Among them was a whip with a short handle and a braided lash, with a flat piece of leather at the end. The leather flap makes a great noise when brought down upon a horse's sides, but does not seem to hurt him much; crackers, like those on American and English whips, seem to be unknown here, at any rate we did not see any. "The handle of the whip is sometimes utilized as the sheath of a knife. The one we bought contained a knife with a long blade, and reminded us of the sword-canes of more civilized countries." "We stopped at Tsaritsin," said Fred, in his journal, "and had a short run on shore. At this point the Volga is only forty miles from the river Don, which empties into the Sea of Azof, and is navigable, in time of high water, about eight hundred miles from its mouth. There is a railway connecting the rivers, and also a canal; the latter is much longer than the railway, and was made by utilizing the channels of some little streams tributary to the rivers, and connecting them by a short cut. "The Don is connected with the Dneiper as well as with the Volga; the three rivers form an important part of the great net-work of water communication with which Russia is supplied. The Dneiper enters the Black Sea at Kherson, near Odessa; next to the Volga it is the largest river of European Russia, and flows through a fertile country. It is about twelve hundred miles long, and its navigation was formerly much obstructed by rapids and other natural obstacles. Many of these hinderances have been removed by the Government, but the river has lost some of its commercial importance since the railways were established. "From Tsaritsin to Astrachan there is not much of interest, as the country is generally low and flat, and the towns and villages are few in number. Much of the country bordering the river is a marsh, which is overflowed at the periods of the annual floods, and therefore is of little value except for the pasturage of cattle. "As we approached the mouth of the Volga we found the river divided into many channels; in this respect it resembles the Nile, the Ganges, the Mississippi, and other great watercourses of the globe. On one of these channels the city of Astrachan is built. It is not on the mainland, but on an island. Another channel passes not far from the one by which we came, and maintains a parallel course for a considerable distance. [Illustration: ARMENIAN BISHOP OF ASTRACHAN.] "Astrachan is the most cosmopolitan city we have seen in Russia, even more so than Kazan. The character of its seventy or eighty thousand inhabitants may be understood when I tell you that it has thirty-seven Greek churches, two Roman Catholic, two Armenian, and one Protestant, and is the seat of a Greek archbishop and an Armenian bishop. Then it has an Indian temple, fifteen mosques, and a Chinese pagoda. It has a botanical garden, an ecclesiastical school, schools of all the grades peculiar to the large towns of Russia, a naval academy, and I don't know how many other institutions. Books are printed here in Russian, Tartar, and other languages, and as you walk through the bazaars your ears are greeted by nearly all the tongues of Europe and Asia. "To get at the cosmopolitan peculiarities of the city we were obliged to go through narrow and dirty streets, which somewhat marred the pleasure of our visit. In this respect Astrachan is more Oriental than Russian; its history dates beyond the time of the Russian occupation of the lower Volga, and therefore we must expect it to have Oriental features in preponderance. "In commercial matters Astrachan is important, as it stands between Europe and Central Asia, and exchanges their goods. Great quantities of raw and embroidered silks, drugs, rhubarb, hides, sheepskins, tallow, and other Asiatic products come here, and in return for them the Russians dispose of cotton and other manufactures suited to the wants of their Kirghese and Turcoman subjects or neighbors. "We are told that there are more than a hundred manufacturing establishments in Astrachan. Vast quantities of salt are made here or in the immediate vicinity, and the fisheries of the Volga and the Caspian Sea, which is only twenty miles away, are among the most important in the world. Unfortunately the harbor is so much obstructed by sand that only vessels of light draught can reach it from the Caspian. Since the opening of the railway connecting the Caspian with the Black Sea, much of the commerce which formerly came to Astrachan is diverted to the new route. "We landed from the steamer and were taken to a hotel which promised very poorly, and fully sustained its promise. But any lodging was better than none at all, and as we were to remain only long enough to get away, it didn't much matter. We breakfasted on the steamer just before leaving it, and had no use for the hotel for several hours. [Illustration: A TARTAR KHAN.] "In our sight-seeing we went to a Tartar _khan_, or inn, a large building two stories high and built around a court-yard, in accordance with the Tartar custom. The court-yard receives wagons and horses, while the rooms that front upon it are rented to merchants and others who desire them. The master of the place will supply food to those who expressly ask for it, and pay accordingly, but he is not expected to do so. "Travellers pick up their food at the restaurants in the neighborhood, and either bring it to their quarters or devour it at the place of purchase. A corridor runs around each story of the khan, and the rooms open upon this corridor. [Illustration: TARTAR POSTILIONS.] "Under one of the stair-ways there is a room for the Tartar postilions who care for the horses of travellers. With their round caps, loose garments, and long pipes they formed a picturesque group around a fire where one of their number was watching the boiling of a pot which probably contained their dinner. [Illustration: TARTAR PALACES IN SOUTHERN RUSSIA.] "In the last few years Astrachan has developed quite an important trade in petroleum, in consequence of the working of the wells at Baku, on the western shore of the Caspian. Steamers and sailing-vessels bring it here in immense quantities, and from Astrachan it is shipped by the Volga to all parts of Russia, and also to Germany and other countries. There are several machine-shops for the repair of steamships, steamboats, and barges engaged in the oil trade. The oil business of the Caspian region is growing very rapidly, and promises to make a serious inroad upon the petroleum industry of the United States. [Illustration: GYPSY FAMILY AT ASTRACHAN.] "There is a line of steamers on the Caspian Sea for the transport of petroleum; they are constructed with tanks in which the oil is carried in bulk, and their engines are run by petroleum instead of coal. Their accommodations for passengers are limited, but as the voyage is made in a couple of days we were not particular, and took places on the first vessel that offered. "Owing to the shallowness of the lower Volga the oil-steamers, excepting some of the smaller ones, do not come to Astrachan, but transfer their cargoes at 'Diavet Foot' (Nine Feet), which is so called from its depth of water. Diavet Foot is eighty miles from Astrachan, and on a shoal which spreads out like a fan beyond the mouth of the Volga. A small steamer having several barges in tow took us to the shoal, where we were transferred to the _Koran_, a handsome steamer two hundred and fifty-two feet long and twenty-eight feet broad. There was a large fleet of river-boats, barges, and sea-steamers at Diavet Foot, and we watched with much interest the process of transferring kerosene from the tank-steamers which had brought it from Baku to the barges for conveyance up the river." An English gentleman, who was connected with the petroleum works at Baku, kindly gave the youths the following information: [Illustration: AN OIL-STEAMER ON THE CASPIAN SEA.] "There are nearly a hundred steamers on the Caspian engaged in the oil traffic. They are of iron or steel, average about two hundred and fifty feet in length by twenty-seven or twenty-eight in breadth, and carry from seven hundred to eight hundred tons (two hundred thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand gallons) of petroleum in their tanks. Their engines are of one hundred and twenty horse-power, and make a speed of ten knots an hour; they use petroleum for fuel, and it is estimated that their running expenses are less than half what they would be if coal were burned instead of oil. The steamers were built in Sweden or England, and brought through from St. Petersburg by means of the canals connecting the Volga with the Neva. Some of the largest steamers were cut in two for the passage of the canals, the sections being united at Astrachan or Baku. "The oil-steamers for river work are from sixty to one hundred and fifty feet long; they are fitted with tanks, like the sea-steamers, and are powerful enough for towing tank-barges in addition to the transport of their own loads. They run from Diavet Foot to Tsaritsin, four hundred miles up the Volga, the first point where there is railway connection to Western Europe. Some of them proceed to Kazan, Nijni Novgorod, and other points on the upper Volga, and also through the canals to St. Petersburg, but the greater part of them land their cargoes at Tsaritsin. "When you get to Baku you will see how rapidly the loading of the steamers is performed. When a steamer is ready for her cargo, an eight-inch pipe pours the kerosene into her tanks, and fills her in about four hours. Then she starts for Diavet Foot, where the oil is pumped into the river steamers and barges; she fills her tanks with fresh water, partly in order to ballast her properly, and partly because water is very scarce at Baku, and then starts on her return. Five or six days make a round trip, including the loading and unloading at either end of the route. "At Baku the water is pumped into reservoirs, to be used in the refineries or for irrigating the soil in the vicinity of the works, and then the steamer is ready for her load again. From Tsaritsin the oil is carried in tank-cars similar to those you have in America. I can't say exactly how many tank-cars are in use, but think the number is not much below three thousand. Twenty-five cars make an oil-train, and these oil-trains are in constant circulation all over the railways of Russia and Western Europe." Frank asked if the enterprise was conducted by the Government or by individuals. "It is in the hands of private parties," said the gentleman, "who are generally organized into companies. The leading company was founded by two Swedes, Nobel Brothers, who have spent most of their lives in Russia, and are famous for their ingenuity and enterprise. The petroleum industry of Baku was practically developed by them; they originated the idea of transporting the Baku petroleum in bulk, and the first tank-steamer on the Caspian was built by them in 1879, according to the plans of the elder brother. [Illustration: TANKS AT A STORAGE DEPOT.] "Bear in mind that the Volga is frozen for four months in the year, at the very time when kerosene is most in demand for light. Nobel Brothers arranged for a system of depots throughout Russia and Germany, where oil could be stored in summer for distribution in winter. The largest of these depots is at Orel, and there are four other large depots at St. Petersburg, Moscow, Warsaw, and Saratov. "The depot at Orel can receive eighteen million gallons, and the four other large depots about three million gallons each. The smaller depots, together with the depot at Tsaritsin, make a total storage capacity of between fifty and sixty million gallons of petroleum available for use when the Volga is frozen and traffic suspended. [Illustration: VIEW IN AN OIL REGION.] "All this was done before the completion of the railway between the Caspian and Black seas. The line from Batoum, on the Black Sea, by way of Tiflis to Baku, on the Caspian, was opened in 1883, and immediately about two hundred tank-cars were set to carrying oil to where it could be loaded into steamers for transportation to the ports of the Mediterranean and to England. A pipe-line similar to what you have in America to connect your oil regions with the seaboard, will probably be established before long between Baku and Batoum; the oil will be pumped from Baku to the crest of the pass through the Caucasus Mountains, and from there it will run by gravity like a mountain stream down to the shores of the Black Sea. There it can be loaded into tank-steamers, or placed in barrels for distribution wherever it can find a market. [Illustration: BITS FOR DRILLING WELLS.] "Perhaps I may be building castles in the air," said the gentleman, "since I am not of your nationality, but I look upon the European market for American petroleum as doomed to destruction. The Baku petroleum has driven your American product from Russia, and is rapidly driving it from the markets of Germany, France, and Austria. We think it quite equal to your petroleum, and in some respects superior. American oilmen claim that theirs is by far the better article, and as each side can bring the opinions of scientists to prove the correctness of its claim, the question resolves itself into one of cheapness of production and transportation. For the market of Europe and Asia we think we have a great advantage in being nearer to it. It is as far from Batoum to England as from New York, and therefore you may be able to supply Great Britain with petroleum, by reason of the cost of transportation. "Two plans are under consideration for overcoming the disadvantages of the closing of the Volga route by ice for one-third of the year. Look on the map of Russia and see the position of Vladikavkaz at the foot of the Caucasus Mountains. The railway reaches that point, and it has been proposed to extend it to a connection with the Batoum-Baku line at Tiflis, a distance of one hundred and ten miles. The line would be very costly, as it must run through the Caucasus range; a longer but less expensive line would be from Vladikavkaz to Petrovsk, on the shore of the Caspian Sea, half way between Baku and the mouth of the Volga. It could be reached in a day by the tank-steamers from Baku, and communication is open for the entire year. "Since either of these lines would be useful for strategic purposes as well as for commerce, it is probable that one or both of them will be built within the next few years. They would be useful for the supply of Russia and Germany in the winter season, and render the enormous storage depots less necessary than they are at present. [Illustration: A SPOUTING WELL.] "The Baku petroleum is utilized not only for making kerosene, but for the manufacture of lubricating oils and for liquid fuel for steam-ship, railway, and other purposes. The oil refuse is burned on the steamer, and railways; for the last two or three years it has been employed by the Tsaritsin-Griazi Railway Company in its locomotives, where it has completely taken the place of coal. It is the only fuel used by the Trans-Caucasian railway from Baku to Batoum and Poti, and wherever it has been tried in competition with coal brought from great distances, it has been adopted. I wonder you don't make use of it in America." [Illustration: DERRICK AND TANKS IN THE AMERICAN OIL REGION.] Doctor Bronson suggested that probably the reason why liquid fuel had not taken the place of coal in America, was in consequence of the relative prices of the two substances. "In Russia," said he, "coal is dear; in America it is cheap, and our coal-fields are exhaustless. Three hundred thousand tons of coal have been carried annually from England to the Black Sea; it retails there for ten or twelve dollars a ton, which would be an enormous price in America. Now what will your petroleum fuel cost at Batoum?" "The present price," said his informant, "is twenty-six English shillings (nearly seven dollars) a ton. Weight for weight, it is cheaper than coal; one ton of it will make as much steam as two tons of coal, and thus you see there is an enormous saving in cost of fuel. Then add the saving in wages of stokers, the additional space that can be given to cargo, and the gain in cleanliness, as the liquid fuel makes neither smoke nor cinders. "The Russian Government is making experiments at Sebastopol with a view to adopting _astaki_, as petroleum refuse is called, as the fuel for its men-of-war. I predict that as fast as the furnaces can be changed you will see all steamers on the Black Sea burning the new substance instead of the old. Come with me and see how the liquid fuel works." "He led the way to the engine-room of the steamer," said Frank, in his journal, "and asked the engineer to show us how the machinery was propelled. "The process is exceedingly simple. Small streams of petroleum are caught by jets of steam and turned into vapor; the vapor burns beneath the boilers and makes the steam, and that is all. The flow of steam and oil is regulated by means of stopcocks, and steam can be made rapidly or slowly as may be desired. "Our friend told us that a fire of wood, cotton-waste, or some other combustible is used to get up steam at starting. This is done under a small boiler distinct from the main ones, and it supplies steam for the 'pulverizer,' as the petroleum furnace is called. "When steam is on the main boilers the small one is shut off and the fire beneath it is extinguished. Even this preliminary fire is rendered unnecessary by a newly invented furnace in which a quantity of hydro-carbon gas is kept stored and in readiness. We were told that the action of the pulverizer is so simple that after the engineers have adjusted the flame at starting and put the machinery in operation, they do not give them any attention till the end of the voyage. One stoker, or fireman, is sufficient to watch all the furnaces of a ship and keep them properly supplied with astaki." A good many additional details were given which we have not space to present. The study of the petroleum question occupied the attention of the youths during the greater part of the voyage, and almost before realizing it they were entering the Bay of Baku, and making ready to go on shore. Frank and Fred were astonished at what they saw before them. Baku is on a crescent-shaped bay, and for a distance of seven or eight miles along its shores there is a fringe of buildings on the land, and a fringe of shipping on the water. Thirty or forty piers jut from the land into the bay; some of the piers were vacant, while others had each from three to half a dozen steamers receiving their cargoes or waiting their turns to be filled. Not less than fifty steamers were in port, and there were several hundred sailing craft of various sizes and descriptions riding at anchor or tied up at the piers. It was a busy scene--the most active one that had greeted their eyes since leaving the fair at Nijni Novgorod. They landed at one of the piers, and were taken to a comfortable hotel facing the water, and not far away from it. The youths observed that the population was a cosmopolitan one, quite equal to that of the fair-grounds of Nijni; Russians, Armenians, Turcomans, Kirghese, Persians, Greeks, all were there together with people of other races and tribes they were unable to classify. The streets were filled with carts and carriages in great number, and they found on inquiry that almost any kind of vehicle they desired could be had with little delay. Doctor Bronson and his young friends had visited the petroleum region of their own country, and very naturally desired to see its formidable rival. They learned that the wells were eight or ten miles from Baku, and as it was late in the day when they arrived, their visit was postponed till the following morning. Securing a competent guide they engaged a carriage, and early the next day left the hotel for the interesting excursion. We will quote Frank's account of what they saw: [Illustration: AN OIL REFINERY WITH TANK CARS.] "We found the road by no means the best in the world," said the youth, "as no effort is made to keep it in repair, and the track is through a desert. On our right as we left Baku is the _Chorney Gorod_, or Black Town, which contains the refineries; it reminded us of Pittsburg, with its many chimneys and the cloud of smoke that hung over it. Then we crossed the track of the railway, and the lines of pipe that supply the refineries with oil. Right and left of us all over the plain there are reservoirs and pools of petroleum; there are black spots which indicate petroleum springs, and white spots denoting the presence of salt lakes. By-and-by we see a whole forest of derricks, which tells us we are nearing Balakhani, the centre of the oil-wells. [Illustration: TARTAR CAMEL-CART AT BAKU.] "Passing on our left the end of a salt lake five or six miles long, we enter the region covered by these derricks, and our guide takes us to the Droojba well, which spouted a stream of petroleum three hundred feet high when it was opened. Two million gallons of petroleum were thrown out daily for a fortnight or more from this one well, and two months after it was opened it delivered two hundred and fifty thousand gallons daily. Our guide said it ruined its owners and drove them into bankruptcy! "You will wonder, as we did, how a discovery that ought to have made a fortune for its owners did exactly the reverse. We asked the guide, and he thus explained it: "'The Droojba Company had only land enough for a well, and none for reservoirs. The oil flowed upon the grounds of other people, and became their property. Some of it was caught on waste ground that belonged to nobody, but the price had fallen so low that the company did not realize from it enough to pay the claims of those whose property was damaged by the débris that flowed from the well along with the petroleum. In this region considerable sand comes with the oil. The sandy product of the Droojba well was very large, and did a great deal of damage. It covered buildings and derricks, impeded workings, filled the reservoirs of other companies or individuals, and made as much havoc generally as a heavy storm.' [Illustration: ANCIENT MOUND NEAR THE CASPIAN SEA.] "The process of boring a well is very much the same as in America, and does not merit a special description. The diameter of the bore is larger than in America; it varies from ten to fourteen inches, and some of the wells have a diameter of twenty inches. Oil is found at a depth of from three hundred to eight hundred feet. Every year the shallow wells are exhausted, and new borings are made to greater depths; they are nearly always successful, and therefore, though the petroleum field around Balakhani is very large, the oil speculators show no disposition to go far from the original site. To do so would require a large outlay for pipe-lines, or other means of transporting the product, and as long as the old spot holds out they prefer to stick to it. [Illustration: CURIOUS ROCK FORMATIONS.] "Our guide said there were about five hundred wells at Balakhani; there are twenty-five thousand wells in America, but it is claimed that they do not yield as much oil in the aggregate as the wells in this region. "From the wells the oil is conducted into reservoirs, which are nothing more than pits dug in the earth, or natural depressions with banks of sand raised around them. Here the sand in the oil is allowed to settle; when it has become clear enough for use the crude petroleum is pumped into iron tanks, and then into the pipe-lines that carry it to the refineries in Chorney Gorod. "Some of the ponds of oil are large enough to be called lakes, and there are great numbers of them scattered over the ground of Balakhani. The iron cisterns or tanks are of great size; the largest of them is said to have a capacity of two million gallons. "There is no hotel, not even a restaurant, at Balakhani, and we should have gone hungry had it not been for the caution of the hotel-keeper, who advised us to take a luncheon with us. The ride and the exertion of walking among the wells gave us an appetite that an alderman would envy, and we thoroughly enjoyed the cold chicken, bread, and grapes which we ate in the carriage before starting back to the town. We reached the hotel without accident, though considerably shaken up by the rough road and the energetic driving of our Tartar coachman." While Frank was busy with his description, Fred was looking up the history of the oil-wells of Baku. Here is what he wrote concerning them: [Illustration: MODERN FIRE-WORSHIPPERS--PARSEE LADY AND DAUGHTER.] "For twenty-five hundred years Baku has been celebrated for its fire-springs, and for a thousand years it has supplied surrounding nations and people with its oil. From the time of Zoroaster (about 600 B.C.) it has been a place of pilgrimage for the Guebres, or Fire-worshippers, and they have kept their temples here through all the centuries down to the present day. At Surukhani (about eight miles from Baku and four or five from Balakhani) there are some temples of very ancient date; they stand above the mouths of gas-wells, and for twenty centuries and more the Fire-worshippers have maintained the sacred flame there without once allowing it to become extinct. On the site of Baku itself there was for centuries a temple in which the sacred fire was maintained by priests of Zoroaster until about A.D. 624. The Emperor Heraclius, in his war against the Persians, extinguished the fires and destroyed the temple. "Since the eighth century, and perhaps earlier, the oil has been an article of commerce in Persia and other Oriental countries. Read what Marco Polo wrote about it in the thirteenth century: "'On the confines of Georgine there is a fountain from which oil springs in great abundance, inasmuch as a hundred ship-loads might be taken from it at one time. This oil is not good to use with food, but 'tis good to burn, and is used also to anoint camels that have the mange. People come from vast distances to fetch it, for in all countries there is no other oil.' "It is probable that the good Marco means camel-loads rather than ship-loads--at least that is the opinion of most students of the subject. The fire-temple of the Guebres is a walled quadrangle, with an altar in the centre, where the fire is kept; the sides of the quadrangle contain cells where the priests and attendants live, and in former times there were frequently several thousands of pilgrims congregated there. We were told that the place would not repay a visit, and therefore we have not gone there, as we are somewhat pressed for time, and the journey is a fatiguing one. [Illustration: A BURNING TANK.] "For a considerable space around the temple there are deep fissures in the ground whence the gas steadily escapes. Before the Russians occupied the country there was an annual sacrifice by the Fire-worshippers. A young man was thrown into one of the fissures, where he perished, though some writers assert that he leaped voluntarily, through the persuasion of the priests. "Though famous through many centuries, and carried thousands of miles east and west for purposes of illumination, the oil of Baku was never gathered in large quantities until the present century, and the exploitation of the oil-fields on a grand scale is an affair of the last twenty years. [Illustration: A FALL IN OIL.] "In 1820 it was estimated that the yield of the Baku oil-wells was about four thousand tons of naphtha, of which the greater part was sent to Persia. The annual production remained about the same until 1860, when it was 5484 tons; in 1864 it was 8700 tons; in 1870, 27,500; and in 1872, 24,800 tons. Down to that time the Government held a monopoly of the oil-fields, and levied a royalty for operating them. In 1872 the monopoly was removed, and the lands were offered for sale or long lease. [Illustration: A RISE IN OIL.] "There was a rush of speculators to the oil fields, stimulated by the knowledge of what had been accomplished in America. Sixty-four thousand tons were produced in 1873, 94,000 in 1875, 242,000 in 1877, 420,000 in 1880, 800,000 in 1883, and over 1,000,000 tons in 1884. In 1885 the total quantity of raw petroleum pumped or received from the wells was 105,000,000 poods, or nearly 2,000,000 tons. Twenty-seven million poods, or nearly 500,000 tons, were distilled at Baku. The largest portion, two thirds at least, was sent off by sea to Astrachan, and thence up the Volga, to be forwarded by tank-cars for distribution to all parts of Russia and to Baltic ports, and thence to Germany and England. About 7,250,000 poods have been shipped by the Trans-Caucasian Railway to Batoum, on the Black Sea, going thence to the Danube, to Odessa, to Marseilles, and some by the Suez Canal to India and China. Every day large trains of tank-cars leave Baku _via_ Tiflis for Batoum, and a pipe-line from Baku to Batoum may be looked for before long. "Down to 1870 the oil was taken from pits which were dug like ordinary wells; boring began in that year on the American system, and the first bored well went into operation, the oil being pumped out by the ordinary pumping machinery. "The first flowing well, or _fontan_ (fountain), as it is called here, was struck in 1873. In that year there were only seventeen bored wells in operation, but by the end of 1874 there were upward of fifty. The flowing wells cease to flow after a time, varying from a few weeks to several months; one well spouted forty thousand gallons of oil daily for more than two years, and afterwards yielded half that amount as a pumping well. The history of many wells of this region is like a chapter from the 'Arabian Nights.' "We are in the midst of oil, and shall be as long as we remain at Baku. There are pools of oil in the streets; the air is filled with the smell of oil; the streets are sprinkled with oil, as it is cheaper and better than water; ships and steamers are black and greasy with oil, and even our food tastes of oil. Everybody talks oil, and lives upon oil (figuratively, at least), and we long to think of something else." NOTE TO SECOND EDITION.--Since the first edition of this book was printed the following telegram has been received: "Baku, October 5, 1886. At Tagieff's wells a fountain has commenced playing at the rate of thirty thousand poods of petroleum an hour. Its height is two hundred and twenty-four feet. In spite of its being five versts from the town, the petroleum sand is pouring upon the buildings and streets." Thirty thousand poods are equivalent to one hundred and twenty-five thousand gallons; multiplied by twenty-four it gives the unprecedented yield of three million gallons a day. Estimating thirty gallons to the barrel, we have a well flowing one hundred thousand barrels of oil daily! This is something never dreamed of by the wildest petroleum speculator in America. A single well of the Baku district is producing more oil than the aggregate of all the petroleum wells in the United States. Plans for a pipe line from Baku to Batoum, with an annual capacity of one hundred and sixty million gallons, have been completed, and the work will be pushed as rapidly as possible. The successful operation of this pipe line can hardly fail to have a serious effect upon the petroleum industry of America. CHAPTER XXI. A GLANCE AT CENTRAL ASIA.--RUSSIAN CONQUEST IN TURKESTAN.--WAR AND DIPLOMACY AMONG THE KIRGHESE TRIBES.--RUSSIAN TAXES AND THEIR COLLECTION.--TURCOMAN AND KIRGHESE RAIDS.--PRISONERS SOLD INTO SLAVERY.--FORTIFIED VILLAGES AND TOWERS OF REFUGE.--COMMERCE IN TURKESTAN.--JEALOUSY OF FOREIGNERS.--TRAVELS OF VÁMBÉRY AND OTHERS.--VÁMBÉRY'S NARROW ESCAPE.--TURCOMAN CHARACTER.--PAYMENTS FOR HUMAN HEADS.--MARRIAGE CUSTOMS AMONG THE TURCOMANS.--EXTENT AND POPULATION OF CENTRAL ASIA. When our friends had completed their study of the Petrolia of Europe they looked around for new worlds to conquer. Being in Russia, they followed Russian tendencies, and turned their eyes in the direction of Central Asia. "Wouldn't it be a splendid trip," said Frank, "to go through Central Asia to India and the Far East? How long would it take, and would it be very expensive?" "I'm afraid there would be too many difficulties in the way," replied the Doctor, with a smile. "In the first place the Russians are not inclined to allow men of other nationalities to see what they are doing in the disputed country between their possessions and those of the English. They would treat us very politely, but, in one way and another, would keep us from crossing Afghanistan to the English lines. We should not be welcome visitors among the English in Northern India. Most of them regard Americans as more friendly to Russia than to England in whatever concerns Central Asia, and the English officials in the disputed country would not aid our movements." "What would be our facilities for travelling, supposing we met with no official opposition?" "Starting from Baku," replied the Doctor, "we could cross the Caspian to Mikhailovsk in a steamer in from sixteen to eighteen hours. Mikhailovsk is in what was once the Turcoman country, but is now Russian territory. It was permanently occupied in 1869, and since that time Russia has been extending her possessions until she is now at the borders of India, with only a narrow strip of territory between the English possessions and her own. [Illustration: CAMP SCENE NEAR THE ALTAI MOUNTAINS.] "From the time of Peter the Great to the present," the Doctor continued, "Russia has been steadily pressing farther and farther into Asia. If inclined to be a punster, I should say she has advanced steppe by steppe; the Kirghese and Turcoman steppes have been conquered one after another--sometimes by fighting, and sometimes by diplomacy, but more frequently by a skilful combination of both forms of conquest. The Russians have a thorough knowledge of Asiatic people, probably because they have so much Asiatic blood in their own veins, and in their dealings with the savage or half-civilized natives of this vast country they manage things much better than the English do. "A large part of the Kirghese country was won without actual fighting, though with military assistance. It was generally in this wise: "Two tribes might be at war with each other, and Russia, after some negotiation, would come to the aid of the weaker. The presence of a Russian battalion of cavalry would be quite sufficient to frighten the stronger tribe into keeping the peace, as its chief would understand that resistance might cost him his dominions. Having made matters quiet, the Russian commander would propose to leave, and let the chief whose cause he had been espousing take care of himself. [Illustration: A KALMUCK PRIEST.] "The chief would then see for the first time the uncomfortable situation he would be in with the retirement of his ally; the stronger tribe would assail him, and be all the more bitter against him on account of his alliance with the Russians. He begged the Russians to stay. After some hesitation they consented, provided the management of affairs was handed over to them. They generally received what they wanted, and then proceeded to conquer the other tribe and make themselves master over both. "Sometimes the Russians follow another policy; they establish themselves with the weaker tribe, make peace between the two factions, and then build a fort and coolly announce that they will remain permanently. The tribes find it useless to resist, and thus they become subject to Russia." "Don't the English accuse the Russians of stirring up trouble among the Kirghese and Turcoman tribes, so as to have an excuse for interference?" one of the youths inquired. "I believe they do," the Doctor answered. "The Russians indignantly deny that such is the case; of course they would deny it, even if confronted with unquestionable proof. [Illustration: SCENE ON THE EDGE OF THE KIRGHESE STEPPE.] "They have sent a great many military expeditions into Central Asia in the last fifty years. For a long time their base of operations was at Orenburg, on the frontier of Siberia, but latterly it has been transferred to the shores of the Caspian. Orenburg is now far in the rear, and its chief use is as a military post, from which order is maintained among the Kirghese. "Some of the Russian expeditions have turned out disastrously, but they have always followed a disaster by a triumph. In one expedition every man was killed, captured, or perished of starvation or thirst in the desert, but immediately another army was put in motion, and the Russians more than recovered the prestige they had lost. The list of the battles fought in Central Asia is a long one, but longer still is the list of bloodless conquests made through Russian diplomacy. "Khanates, chieftaincies, and principalities have been absorbed by Russia in her southward and eastward march over the steppes and along the valleys of the rivers. The cities of Tashkend, Samarcand, Khiva, Kokan, and Bokhara, have passed from the flag of the intolerant Moslem to that of the tolerant Russian, and with the cities have gone the khanates and principalities of which they were the capitals." Fred asked if the subjugation of these territories had been beneficial to their inhabitants or not. [Illustration: KIRGHESE GROUP.] "In every way it has been a benefit to them, and none of those who are peaceably disposed would care to return to their old condition. The Russian yoke is easy upon the necks of the inhabitants; the Russians make no interference with the religion, laws, manners, and customs of the people, excepting where they are manifestly cruel or tyrannical; they allow the natives to do exactly as they like, protect them in the possession of their property, give them facilities of trade never before enjoyed, and in every way better their condition. "In place of the outrageous taxes formerly levied by the Moslem authorities whenever the khan or his officials wanted money, the Russians have a fixed annual tax which is never above the easy ability of the subject to pay; it is generally asserted that the taxes in Asia are much lighter than those of European Russia, to make sure that there shall be no discontent among the people. The Russian Government requires that every subject shall pay a tax, not so much for the value of the article received as an acknowledgment of subjection. "In the settled portions of Russia the tax is payable in money, but in the wilder regions taxes are collected 'in kind.' On the shores of the Arctic Ocean and through all the northern part of Siberia the _yessak_, or tax, is one fox-skin; in Kamtchatka it was formerly one sable-skin, but since the increase in the price of the fur, one skin is received for every four inhabitants, who arrange the division among themselves. In some of the grain-growing parts of the Empire the tax is paid in grain; on the Amoor River it is paid in fish, and among the Kirghese and Turcomans it is paid in cattle, sheep, or horses, which constitute the circulating medium of the country. [Illustration: KIRGHESE CHIEF AND FAMILY.] "In return for this tax, and provided the new subject in Central Asia behaves himself, he has the protection of a powerful government. The Russian Government has its faults, but it is immeasurably superior to the old way in which these countries were ruled. "By the religion of the Moslem might makes right, and this was the foundation of the governmental system of the Kirghese and Turcoman tribes, together with the khanates previously mentioned. Robbery was a recognized means of making a living; not robbery by detail, as practised by highwaymen and burglars, but wholesale robbery in which entire tribes were concerned. Many thousands of people lived by raiding, and the raid was as legitimate a way of acquiring property as selling goods in a shop and making a profit on them." [Illustration: CARAVAN IN RUSSIAN TERRITORY.] Frank and Fred made an exclamation of surprise as the Doctor continued: "The Kirghese who occupy the region immediately south of the Altai Mountains, and are still found on the southern confines of the Baraba Steppe, are broken into many independent tribes; they are nomadic in their habits, wandering from place to place in search of pasturage for their immense flocks and herds. In winter they frequent the valleys among the outlying hills of the Altai Mountains, and in summer descend upon the plains. Many of the tribes live altogether on the plains, and their range covers many thousands of square miles. "Quarrels were numerous among them, chiefly growing out of disputes about pasturage or water, and these are the quarrels in which the Russians interfered, both in the interest of humanity and the spread of their power. Frequently these disputes led to raids for purposes of plunder; quite as frequently one tribe would make a raid on another with which it was at peace for the sole object of robbery. "Attacks were generally made at night, and if they were successful the robbers would drive off the flocks and herds of the tribe assailed. Men, women, and children were taken to be sold into slavery in the markets of Khiva and Bokhara, or kept among their captors. These slaves were treated with the greatest cruelty; they were severely beaten for the slightest offence or failure to perform what had been ordered, were poorly fed, and often compelled to wear chains. They were generally maimed for life, by means of a horse-hair run through the heel, in order to prevent their escape from captivity. "All this business was brought to an end by the Russians when they occupied the Kirghese country. They compelled the tribes to live peacefully with each other, and if any dispute arose about water or pasturage it was referred to the Russian commander of the district for adjustment. If one tribe made a raid on another it was compelled to give up the stolen property, and furthermore a heavy fine was levied upon the raiders--half going to the Russian Government and half to the injured tribe. The Russians generally made the fine heavy enough to furnish a percentage for the officers who took the trouble to adjust the differences. "Russian goods were introduced among these nomadic people, markets were opened, and every facility was offered for the increase of commerce. Long caravans were constantly in motion between Orenburg, Sempolatinsk, and other points in Russian territory, and Khiva, Bokhara, and Samarcand, far to the east. They traversed the Kirghese and Turcoman country, and wherever they went they found a material difference in the matter of safety, whether the territory was under Russian rule or remained independent. If the latter, the caravans were constantly liable to attack and plunder; if the former, they were invariably free from molestation. "The capture of Bokhara, Samarcand, and Khiva reduced the slave-markets of the Turcoman raiders, but by no means put an end to their plundering expeditions. The independent Turcomans were estimated to be about a million in number, divided into several tribes, who sometimes warred upon each other, but constantly upon the Persians and other peaceable people. In the wars between Khiva and Bokhara, Samarcand and Kokan, they took sides with those who would pay the most for their services. [Illustration: KIRGHESE RAID ON A HOSTILE TRIBE.] "Down to very recently the whole of Northern Persia was subject to Turcoman raids, and agriculture was carried on under great difficulties.[7] The raids were sometimes carried up to within a hundred miles of Teheran, or about five hundred miles inside the Persian boundary. They were organized months beforehand, and sometimes as many as five or six thousand men were engaged in a single enterprise. A raid was called a 'chapow' by the Persians; in the Turcoman language it was an 'alaman.' [7] In an article in HARPER'S MAGAZINE for March, 1886, Mr. William Simpson, an English artist and journalist, who went to the Afghan frontier with the Boundary Commission, says it is only within a couple of years that the raiding was brought to an end. He frankly credits Russia with the suppression of the raiding system, and says she deserves the thanks of the civilized world. "A Turcoman leader would announce his intention of making an alaman, but the route was always kept secret through fear of betrayal. The Turcomans are splendid horsemen, and while organizing an expedition they put their steeds under a system of training to enable them to make long and swift marches whenever occasion required. When everything was ready the party started; it travelled slowly until it reached the Persian frontier, and was often weeks on the way. "Passing the frontier, the hard work of the campaign began. The region selected for the raid was reached as soon as possible; then the invading force was divided into small parties, and each had a particular village assigned to it. Their movements were made so as to catch the people at work in the fields, and capture the cattle before they could be driven into a place of safety. Not only the cattle, but all the men, women, and children that could be seized were taken. The old and useless were slaughtered without mercy; the young or able-bodied were carried off, to be sold into slavery. A wealthy Persian was held for a heavy ransom, but a poor man had no chance of redemption. "The plundering was kept up as long as there was anything to steal, and then the expedition returned to its own territory. Sometimes in a single raid as many as a hundred thousand horses, sheep, goats, and other animals were captured, and a thousand or more people were carried into slavery." Frank asked if the Persian Government made no provision for the protection of its people. "Very little," replied the Doctor; "the Persian troops were in the cities and large towns, which the Turcomans never attacked, and as there was no telegraph through the country, the raiders almost invariably got to a safe distance before a pursuit could be started. Very often the Persian officials on the frontier connived at the raids, and the people were forced to rely upon themselves for protection." "In what way could they do anything against the robbers?" was the very natural query that followed this statement. "Their villages are built of mud, and may be called forts," the Doctor replied. "The walls are from twenty to thirty feet thick, and about forty in height; they form a quadrangle, or circle, where cattle can be driven at night, and there is only a single door-way, too low to permit the passage of a man on horseback. The raiders never stop to besiege a place; all their work is done by a sudden dash, and the Turcoman would never think of dismounting to pass the low door-way. Inside there is a stone door which may be closed to prevent ingress; it is thick and strong, and once inside of their mud village the people are safe. [Illustration: LASGIRD--A FORTIFIED VILLAGE IN NORTHERN PERSIA.] "Here is a picture of one of these villages," said the Doctor; "it is called Lasgird, and is about a hundred miles east of the capital of Persia. You will observe that there is a double tier of dwellings on the top of the circular wall; the enclosed space accommodates the cattle and other live-stock of the village, and is also utilized for the storage of grain. On the outside, near the top, there is a balcony made of projecting timbers covered with branches of trees; it has no outer railing, and must be a very unsafe place for a promenade. Inside of such a retreat the people had nothing to fear, as the Turcomans have no artillery and did not care to stay long enough to batter down the walls." Fred remarked that it must be difficult for those at work in the fields at any distance to get to the village before they were overtaken by the raiders on their swift horses. [Illustration: TOWER OF REFUGE.] "So it is," was the reply, "and to further protect themselves they had towers of refuge in their fields, where they could run in case of danger. Some of the towers had ladders on the outside which were drawn up as the Turcomans approached, while others were entered by narrow door-ways similar to those of the villages. On the hills there were signal-towers where watchmen were stationed; when the dust of an approaching alaman was seen, the watchmen gave warning and the people fled for safety." "What a life to lead!" said one of the youths. "Always apprehensive of danger, and never knowing when the murderous Turcomans might come!" "It was much like the life of the early settlers of New England," said the Doctor, "when the Indians were liable to come at any moment, and the men carried their guns to church on Sunday. The same condition of things has continued until quite recently on our western frontier, and still exists in a few places in Texas and New Mexico. But the difference is that in our country it never lasted for many years in any one place, while in Persia the situation was the same for centuries. "These Turcoman thieves hampered agriculture in the way I have described, and they also restricted commerce by plundering the caravans. Merchants travelled with an armed escort and in large numbers. Even this did not save them from attack, as a great caravan was unwieldy, and often the robbers would dart in and seize a few camels laden with merchandise while the escort was so far away in another part of the line that it could not rush to attack the marauders until they had finished their work and departed. And remember that for centuries trade has followed this dangerous route! "A curious thing about these raids is that the departure of a plundering expedition was always accompanied by religious ceremonies. The Mollahs, or Moslem priests, gave their blessing to the thieves, and prayed for Allah's favor upon the enterprise. When the party returned laden with plunder, and driving slaves and stolen cattle in great number, the same priests offered prayers in thanks for Allah's blessing, and a portion of the proceeds of the expedition was set apart for the cause of religion." [Illustration: FRAMEWORK OF TURCOMAN TENT.] "Then they must be of a different religion from the Persians," Fred observed, "as they would not be likely to make war upon people of their own faith." [Illustration: THE TENT COVERED.] "Unfortunately for your theory, that was not the case," the Doctor answered. "Persians and Turcomans are all Moslems; they have different sects, just as have the adherents of the Christian religion, but in a general way they may be said to be of the same faith. Moslems make war upon each other with very little hesitation; the only thing in which they appear to be united is in their hatred of all other religions than their own." "I suppose they have not received travellers with any courtesy," said Frank. "Do they permit foreigners to visit their country and study its character?" [Illustration: INTERIOR OF TENT.] "Not at all," was the reply, "if they can prevent it, and they are not at all particular about the mode of prevention. Of course, since the country was occupied by Russia there has been a change in this respect, and under Russian protection a stranger may travel there with comparative safety. "In former times most of the Europeans who ventured into Turkestan (the collective name for the countries of Central Asia) paid the penalty of their temerity with their lives. Russians, Englishmen, Germans, and others perished, and not one explorer in ten returned to tell the story of his travels. Two English ambassadors, Colonel Stoddart and Captain Conolly, ventured into Bokhara about 1840, and were murdered, the former after four years' imprisonment, and the latter after a twelvemonth. "Stoddart was repeatedly tortured, and finally was promised his freedom if he would embrace the Moslem religion. To save his life he consented, and went through the required ceremony; the Emir of Bokhara continued to torture him, and finally ordered the heads of both Conolly and Stoddart to be cut off in the public square of Bokhara. "Stoddart was executed first, and then the Emir offered Conolly his freedom if he would become a Moslem. 'No,' said he, 'I prefer to die. Stoddart became a Moslem and you have killed him. Go on with your work.' The Emir nodded to the executioner, and the work of execution was completed. "Wood, another Englishman, who went to Bokhara to ascertain what had become of Stoddart and Conolly, was imprisoned for some time, and narrowly escaped with his life. A more fortunate explorer was Arminius Vámbéry, a Hungarian, who travelled through Central Asia disguised as a dervish from Constantinople. At the very outset of his journey he was obliged to wait for three-quarters of a year in Teheran before he could find the right kind of party to travel with. In his character of dervish he associated with pilgrims like himself, who wished to visit the Moslem shrines of Bokhara and Samarcand. They were twenty-four in number, and nearly all of them were distinguished for their poverty. They intended to beg their way through the country and back again; Vámbéry had a little money, which he carefully concealed, as it would not be in accordance with his assumed character of dervish to be known to have any ready cash. [Illustration: VÁMBÉRY'S RECEPTION BY TURCOMAN CHIEF ON THE CASPIAN SHORE.] "From Teheran they went north to the Turcoman country, which then extended westward to the shores of the Caspian Sea. On landing, they were greeted by the Turcoman chief who ruled in that district; he was very hospitable, and entertained them for a whole month merely for the sake of having visitors. "In a caravan of Turcoman horsemen they journeyed to Khiva, crossing a desert region where for days they had only the water they carried on their saddles. They fell short of water, and while their suffering was severe they were relieved by the chief of the caravan, who had an extra store concealed in his baggage. As he doled it out to the pilgrims he said it had always been his custom to carry an extra supply of water while crossing the desert, and distribute it when most needed. But this same man had proposed a few days before to leave Vámbéry to perish in the desert, on the mere suspicion that he was a European in disguise. "Vámbéry gives an excellent description of the Turcoman character, which has been fully confirmed by other travellers, and later by the Russian conquerors of Turkestan. They are honest in their dealings with each other, and often display much tenderness; at the same time they are the most brutal of slave-masters and man-stealers, and capable of the severest cruelty. Vámbéry says that one day a Turcoman said it was a sin to destroy a basket in the desert, because it had once been the seat of a man on a camel; the same man denied a drop of water to a slave whom he had fed on salt-fish for two days, and his delight at the suffering of his victim was equal to that of a countryman over the antics of a clown at a circus. [Illustration: RECEIVING PAYMENT FOR HUMAN HEADS--KHIVA.] "Some of the tribes, in their wars with each other, cut off the heads of those whom they slay in battle, and bring them home as trophies; Vámbéry happened to be present in Khiva when, one day, the Khan's treasurer was paying for human heads. As each warrior came forward he emptied his sack on the ground, and an accountant made note of the number of skulls and the name of their owner. [Illustration: TURCOMAN TROPHY--A RUSSIAN HEAD.] "The payment was not in money, but in robes of honor, which were of different colors, according to the number of slain to each warrior's credit. Some received the robe of forty heads, others the robe of twenty, and others that of ten, five, or four. It was like the different degrees of the decorations awarded by the rulers of the nations of Europe, or the rewards of merit issued by a school-teacher to diligent and well-behaved pupils. "Another time Vámbéry was in the public square of Khiva when about three hundred prisoners of war were brought in. They were separated into two divisions, those who had not reached their fortieth year, and were to be sold as slaves or given as presents, being placed in one category. They were chained together and led away, and then the old men were brought forward for punishment; and what do you suppose it was? "These gray-bearded old men were tied hand and foot and placed flat on their backs on the ground. Then their eyes were gouged out, the executioner kneeling on the breast of each to perform his dreadful work. Each time when he finished with a victim he deliberately wiped his knife on the latter's flowing beard. Vámbéry says the scene will make him shudder as long as he lives, and no wonder. "And yet he found the people of Khiva full of pious charity. The same khan who had ordered this cruel treatment of prisoners of war, loaded the supposed dervish and his companions with presents, and showed them every kindness. When Vámbéry left in the direction of Bokhara, he was mounted on a good donkey, and had plenty of clothing, provisions, and money, which had been given him by the faithful. "Vámbéry says he one day asked a robber who was noted for piety, how he could sell his brother religionists into slavery. The robber replied that the holy book, the Koran, was certainly more precious than man, and yet it was bought or sold for a few small coins. He added that Joseph, the son of Jacob, was a prophet, but was sold into slavery without being any the worse for it. His argument was forcible, and the stranger concluded it was best not to oppose it." Frank asked how the women of the Turcoman tribes were treated by their lords and masters. "Women among the Turcomans have an inferior position, as in all Moslem countries," the Doctor replied. "They are far more the slaves of their husbands than their equals; sometimes they are treated with great kindness, but more frequently their lives are full of hardship. They perform most of the labor of the camp and village, the men being chiefly occupied with the care of the flocks and herds, making expeditions for the sake of plunder, or warring on neighboring tribes. "Husbands sell their wives as they sell cattle or sheep, and the poor creatures have no redress for their wrongs. A husband buys his wife from her parents, and she has very little voice in the transaction; the price is generally based upon the social standing of the parties, and the ability of the purchaser to pay for the property. Among nearly all the nomad tribes of Turkestan the marriage ceremony includes a race for the bride; the game is called _Kökbüri_ (green wolf), and is decidedly interesting. [Illustration: KÖKBÜRI--A RACE FOR A BRIDE.] "The girl is mounted on a swift horse, and carries the carcass of a lamb before her on the saddle. She is given a certain start in advance of the bridegroom and his friends; they follow on horseback, and unless the bridegroom can take the lamb from her hands during the race the match is 'off.' She makes a show of resistance, and generally leads the party a long distance, but the affair having been negotiated beforehand, is pretty sure to end in the surrender of the lamb. In some tribes the girl must be lifted from the saddle by the bridegroom, who carries her on his own horse back to the point of starting. "There is this difference in the treatment of the women of Turkestan and those of most other Moslem countries," the Doctor continued, "that they are not required to cover their faces. In Turkey, Egypt, and Arabia the Moslem woman who leaves her face uncovered commits an act of great impropriety, but this is not the case in Turkestan. Many of the women are quite pretty in their youth, but their good looks do not last long. The men are of good height and figure, and their manners are grave and dignified. The hair and beard are dark, and the complexion may be set down as a light shade of brown." Frank asked how many tribes and people were included in Turkestan or Central Asia, and how great was the population. [Illustration: VIEW OF THE CITADEL OF KHIVA.] "That is a very difficult question to answer," said the Doctor, "in fact it is impossible to do so exactly. The census-taker is unknown in Central Asia, except in the cities and towns; even there he does not enumerate the whole population, but only the heads of families and the men capable of bearing arms. Turkestan includes all the country between the Caspian Sea and the 110th degree of longitude east, and from Siberia southward to Persia, Afghanistan, and Thibet. Turkestan means 'The land of the Turks.' On the maps it is generally divided into Eastern and Western Turkestan, the former lying partly in the Chinese Empire, and the latter covering the vast plain of the Caspian and Aral seas. The population is variously estimated at from eight to twelve millions. Russia has absorbed nearly all of Western Turkestan, and the Russian officials think they have at least eight millions of people in their new possessions. "The tribes and provinces are divided and subdivided so that they are not easy to name. Western Turkestan was formerly known as Independent Tartary, and comprises the Turcoman steppes, the khanates of Khiva, Bokhara, Samarcand, and Kokan, together with Balkh and some smaller provinces which are in dispute between Russia and Afghanistan. These disputes have led to quarrels between Russia and England, and quite likely will lead to war at no distant day. [Illustration: AN OZBEK HEAD.] "The people dwelling in Turkestan are mainly of the Turkish race; their language is Turkish, and the country was the seat of the race that spread its boundaries by a career of conquests, which did not stop until it entered Europe and pressed as far westward as the walls of Vienna. Briefly we may say the inhabitants of Turkestan are Ozbeks or Uzbeks (the dominant race), Turcomans, Kirghese, Karakalpaks, Tajiks, Persians, Kipchaks, and a few Arabs, Hindoos, and Jews. The Ozbeks are the most civilized people of the country, and are mainly settled in the cities and towns; they fill most of the official positions, and their leading families can trace their descent for centuries. The Persians are mostly descended from those who have been stolen by the Turcomans and sold into slavery, and the Arabs, Hindoos, and Jews may be regarded as wanderers who have been drawn there by business or accident. "I have already told you something of the Kirghese, whose country was the first to be absorbed by Russia. The other people of Turkestan besides those just mentioned are not sufficiently numerous or important to deserve special description. If you wish further particulars, you will find them in Schuyler's 'Turkestan,' Vámbéry's 'Travels in Central Asia,' 'History of Bokhara,' and Shaw's 'High Tartary, Yarkand, and Kashgar.'" The conversation was interrupted by a gentleman who called to ask if Doctor Bronson and his young friends would like to make a trip to the other side of the Caspian Sea. A steamer was to leave in two or three hours for Mikhailovsk, and the next morning would see them landed in the country where, until quite recently, the Turcomans reigned and robbed at will. The invitation was promptly accepted, and when the steamer left Baku our friends were among her passengers. What they saw and heard will be told in the next chapter. CHAPTER XXII. FRANK AND FRED IN THE TURCOMAN COUNTRY.--THE TRANS-CASPIAN RAILWAY.--SKOBELEFF'S CAMPAIGN, AND THE CAPTURE OF GEOK TEPÉ.--ENGLISH JEALOUSY OF RUSSIAN ADVANCES.--RIVERS OF CENTRAL ASIA.--THE OXUS AND JAXARTES.--AGRICULTURE BY IRRIGATION.--KHIVA, SAMARCAND, AND BOKHARA.--A RIDE ON THE TRANS-CASPIAN RAILWAY.--STATISTICS OF THE LINE.--KIZIL ARVAT, ASKABAD, AND SARAKHS.--ROUTE TO HERAT AND INDIA.--TURCOMAN DEVASTATION.--THE AFGHAN BOUNDARY QUESTION.--HOW MERV WAS CAPTURED.--O'DONOVAN AND MACGAHAN: THEIR REMARKABLE JOURNEYS.--RAILWAY ROUTE FROM ENGLAND TO INDIA.--RETURN TO BAKU. [Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE RELATIONS OF RUSSIA AND ENGLAND IN THE EAST.] Our young friends were up early, in their eagerness to see the country of the Turcomans. They found themselves looking at a comparatively flat region, quite in contrast with the chain of the Caucasus, that filled the horizon to the west of Baku, and interposed a formidable barrier between the Caspian and Black seas. The steamer headed into a narrow bay which formed the harbor of Mikhailovsk, the new town whence the Trans-Caspian Railway takes its departure in the direction of India. [Illustration: SAND-STORM IN THE DESERT.] Everything indicated the newness of the place. Houses, barracks, piers, railway-station, all were new, and many of the houses were not even finished. Russian soldiers and Russian officers were numerous in the crowd at the landing-place, and there were scores of mujiks busily engaged in handling goods destined for the railway or for the steamers, but they did not by any means have a monopoly of the labor market of Mikhailovsk. Tartars, Kirghese, Turcomans, Persians, and other Asiatics were there in considerable numbers. They appeared to be quite as industrious as the mujiks, and every way as keen to scent a job wherein money was to be earned. It is an interesting circumstance that the Turcomans, now that they are forbidden to indulge in raiding, have turned their attention to steady industry, and promise to make good citizens. Whatever may be their faults, they are not a lazy people; they gave up their raiding habits very unwillingly; but when once convinced that they must live by industry, they seem to have accepted the situation. [Illustration: TURCOMAN COURT OF JUSTICE.] Mr. Ivanovich, the gentleman who invited our friends to cross the Caspian, was connected with the management of the Trans-Caspian Railway, as the line from Mikhailovsk is called. During the voyage from Baku he gave the youths an account of the building of the railway, and matters connected with it, of which Frank made the following notes: "The Trans-Caspian Railway," said Mr. Ivanovich, "owes its existence to a military necessity that arose in 1879. When the Russians first occupied the Turcoman country they built fortifications, and settled down to stay. General Skobeleff always claimed that we made a great mistake in doing so; the Government did not think it safe to make a movement directly into the Turcoman country, and consequently several years were occupied in doing what Skobeleff thought should have been done in one. The Turcomans knew nothing about regular warfare, and we might have crushed them in a little while with our trained battalions. But we waited so long that they learned how to fight, partly through our own instruction, and then it required the best of fighting to defeat them. "It looked at one time as if the Turcomans would altogether prevent us from getting any foothold in their country beyond the shores of the Caspian. Skirmishes almost without number occurred, in which sometimes the Russians and sometimes the Turcomans had the best of the contest. Skobeleff, then a captain, was one of those who landed at Krasnovodsk in 1869. He made more successes in the fighting with the Turcomans than anybody else; but in 1873 he was called away in the campaign against Khiva, and from that time to 1879 nothing of moment was accomplished. [Illustration: KIRGHESE TOMB.] "In 1878 Tekme Sardar, a Turcoman chief, submitted to the Russians, and was received into their camp at Krasnovodsk. He remained there several months, and then, for some real or fancied injury, fled from the camp, and collected his followers with the determination to make war on the invaders. At a place called Geok Tepé he formed a junction with other chiefs, and established a camp. "Tekme Sardar had made good use of his eyes during his stay among us. He showed his people how to build forts. About forty thousand Turcomans, with their families, collected at Geok Tepé, and threw up an immense earthwork exactly like the defences built by the Russians. General Lomakin advanced against this earthwork in 1879, and after a series of skirmishes outside the walls he attacked the Turcomans in their stronghold, and was severely repulsed. He retired to the shores of the Caspian, and thus ended the campaign for that year. [Illustration: CHARGE OF RUSSIAN CAVALRY AGAINST TURCOMANS.] "General Skobeleff was then appointed to the command of the Turcoman district, and the Government told him he could have anything he wanted in men or munitions of war. "The Government had a hundred miles of railway material somewhere on its south-western frontier, which was intended for use in case of the failure of the Berlin Congress. Skobeleff asked for this material, and it was at once transferred to the Caspian. He changed the base of operations from Krasnovodsk to Mikhailovsk, and at once began the construction of the line. The whole movement was made so quietly that hardly anything was known of the work until the track had been laid about half-way to Kizil Arvat, one hundred and forty-four miles from Mikhailovsk. "Skobeleff could not wait for the completion of the railway. While the road was being constructed he pushed forward to Bami, a strong point in the Akhal oasis, where he built a fort, and gradually collected the materials for the siege of Geok Tepé. When everything was in readiness he advanced and began the siege, which lasted fully a month. "Perhaps the following figures will interest you: The Russians were between eight and ten thousand strong, of all arms, infantry, cavalry, and artillery. The artillery comprised sixty-nine guns, while the Turcomans had no cannon to oppose them with. When the siege began, Skobeleff found that his cannon made little impression upon the clay walls of the fort, so he ordered his artillery to fire over the walls and into the enclosed space, in order to demoralize the people within as much as possible. In fighting against Asiatics, artillery always has a prominent part. Its moral effect in frightening them is certainly ten times as great as its destructive power. [Illustration: RUSSIAN ARMY ON THE TURCOMAN STEPPES.] "During the siege the artillery fired from one hundred to five hundred shots daily, and the infantry used from ten thousand to seventy thousand rounds of ammunition in the same time. Skobeleff sunk a mine under the rampart, and exploded more than a ton of gunpowder at a single blast. It made a wide breach, through which the Russian army poured into the fort, with very little opposition on the part of the Turcomans. The latter fled in the direction of Merv, but were pursued by the Russian cavalry. The slaughter is said to have been fearful, and the Russians say that twenty thousand Turcomans perished in the siege and capture of Geok Tepé. During the assault and pursuit the infantry fired 273,804 rounds, the cavalry 12,510, and the artillery 5,864; 224 military rockets were also used.[8] [8] Marvin's "The Russians at the Gates of Herat." "Many careful students of the history of Central Asia," continued Mr. Ivanovich, "consider the siege and capture of Geok Tepé the most important victory ever achieved by the Russians in Turkestan. It opened the way for the Russian advance to the frontier of India, and carried the boundaries of the Empire southward to those of Persia. In the interest of humanity it was of the greatest importance, as it broke up the system of man-stealing and its attendant cruelties which the Turcomans had practised for centuries. The people of Northern Persia no longer live in constant terror of Turcoman raids; the slave-markets of Central Asia are closed, and doubtless forever." Frank asked if the English Government was as well pleased with the result of the siege as were the Russians. Mr. Ivanovich said he did not know exactly how the English regarded the victory, but from the tone of their press and the utterances of British statesmen, he did not think they would have mourned if the Russians had been repulsed. "England," said he, "is jealous of Russian advances in Turkestan. Lord Salisbury believed that the Turcoman barrier against Russia would last his lifetime, and many other English statesmen and officers shared his belief. "No doubt they were very sorry for the sufferings of the Persians, who were sold into slavery after seeing their homes plundered and their fields devastated, but I question if they were willing, for political reasons, to see the Turcomans wiped out as they were at Geok Tepé. I think I have read much more in the English papers about the loss to English commerce by the Russian occupation of Central Asia than of the gain to humanity by the suppression of the Turcoman raids. "The interests of British trade are the first consideration of the British statesman. Many thousands of Africans and Asiatics have died by British bullets and sabres that the commerce of England might be extended. Unless I mistake the temper of the British Government, I am afraid that the advisers of the Queen would prefer the old state of things to the new on the Turcoman steppes. The sale of a thousand bales of Manchester cottons in the bazaars of Turkestan is of more consequence to England than the enslavement of a thousand Persians and the desolation of their homes. "But that is wandering from the subject," said Mr. Ivanovich, with a smile. "I may be prejudiced, but can't help regarding England as a disturber of the peace all over the world, whenever the disturbance will benefit her trade. She doesn't believe in monopoly, except where she can be the monopolist, and for that reason she is jealous of the way we Russians are trying the monopoly business for ourselves. We have the trade of ten millions of Asiatics: no great thing to be sure, but we don't propose to hand it over to England just because she wants it. We have cotton factories and other manufacturing establishments, as England has, and the more markets we can have the better it will be for us." The gentleman paused, and gave Fred an opportunity to ask if there were any navigable rivers in Turkestan, and, if so, what they were. [Illustration: WINTER CAMP IN TURCOMANIA.] "There is no navigation worth the name," was the reply. "Central Asia contains only two rivers of any importance--the Oxus and the Jaxartes. The Oxus is sometimes called the Amoo Darya, or Jihoon, and the Jaxartes the Syr Darya. The Oxus is the largest; it rises in the Pamir district, in a lake fifteen thousand feet above the sea, and in the upper part of its course receives several tributary rivers that drain Bokhara and the north-eastern part of Afghanistan. It is about twelve hundred miles long, and flows into the Aral Sea; for the last eight hundred miles of its course it is navigable for small steamboats, but its mouth is divided into so many shallow channels that boats have great difficulty in entering it. The Russians have half a dozen steamers on the Aral Sea, and as many more light-draught steamboats for navigating the Oxus." "Haven't I read that the Oxus formerly emptied into the Caspian Sea?" said Frank. "Quite likely you have," said Mr. Ivanovich, "as there is little doubt that such was the case. The old bed of the Oxus can be distinctly traced, and geographers are generally agreed that the river entered the Caspian by three mouths. Ptolemy and Strabo both state distinctly that in their time the Oxus flowed into the Caspian, and formed the principal trade-route between Europe and Asia." "How came it to change its course?" [Illustration: TURCOMAN IRRIGATING WHEEL.] "Much of the region traversed by the Oxus is a desert, and the only agriculture possible there is by irrigation. In order to increase the area under cultivation, the Turcomans built dams that turned the Oxus in the direction of a vast plain which contains the Aral Sea. Since the occupation of the country by the Russians, it has been proposed to return the Oxus to its ancient bed, and bring it down to the Caspian. It is not likely that this will be done, as the result would be that the whole lower course of the Oxus, where there are many flourishing farms and gardens, would again become a desert waste. Much less water flows through the Oxus than in former times, and the engineers who have studied the question do not think the river would be navigable when returned to its ancient bed. [Illustration: SCENE AT A FERRY ON THE OXUS.] "The other river of Central Asia, the Jaxartes, or Syr Darya, is smaller than the Oxus, and about eleven hundred miles long. It rises in the Pamir region, and empties, like the Oxus, into the Aral Sea. Its course is generally parallel to the Oxus, and in the same way it fertilizes a large area of what would otherwise be desert. Its volume has greatly diminished in the last few centuries, and is even known to be considerably less than it was sixty or eighty years ago. The Oxus enters the southern end of the Aral Sea, while the Jaxartes comes in considerably farther to the north. The diversion of these two rivers would probably result in drying up the Aral Sea, a shallow body of water two hundred and fifty miles long by half as many wide." [Illustration: MAP OF THE RUSSO-AFGHAN REGION.] Fred asked if the Caspian was higher or lower than the Aral Sea. "They are of the same level, or nearly so," was the reply, "though some engineers say the Aral is about one hundred and fifty feet higher than the Caspian, and the indications are that the two seas were formerly connected. The whole plain of Turcomania is thought to have been at one time an inland sea. At its southern extremity the Aral is bordered by an immense marsh, and it is through this marsh that the Oxus discharges its waters. "Khiva stands near the Oxus, in the midst of beautiful gardens, all nourished by the water from the river. Khiva, Bokhara, Samarcand, and Kokan would become masses of ruins if the Oxus and Jaxartes were dried up, and you may be sure the Russians will give the subject careful consideration before disturbing the course of the waters. Nowhere in the world will you see more careful irrigation than along these rivers, with the possible exception of the Nile valley. All through Central Asia the only possible agriculture is upon the watercourses, or where there are never-failing wells. Canals and irrigation-wheels are everywhere, and you will often see evidences of excellent engineering abilities in the construction of some of the artificial water-ways. "General Annenkoff, the officer in charge of the construction of the Trans-Caspian Railway, has a scheme for creating a new oasis, capable of supporting two hundred thousand people, near the disputed boundary between Turkestan and Afghanistan. He proposes to turn one of the tributaries of the Oxus for that purpose, and is confident that he can make a fertile area of several hundred square miles by carefully utilizing the water of the stream." On landing at Mikhailovsk, our friends were introduced to several Russian officers, some of whom had been in America, and who heartily welcomed the trio of travellers from that far-away land. They were invited to the club-house, where they were lodged and cared for; the town did not boast an hotel other than a very indifferent khan, which had all the discomforts of the Orient, with none of its good points. Frank and Fred endeavored to find the time-table of the railway, with a view to making an excursion into Turkestan. Their inquiries were rewarded with the information that there was no regular time for running the trains, as the business transacted on the line was nearly all of a military character. But a train was to leave in the morning for Kizil Arvat, one hundred and forty-four miles, and if they cared to make the journey they were at liberty to do so. Finding they would have time to go to Kizil Arvat and return before the departure of the steamer for Baku, they accepted the invitation, which included the Doctor as well as themselves. Early the next morning the train rolled out from the station; it consisted of a locomotive and ten or twelve carriages. One carriage contained the officers of a regiment of infantry that filled the remaining vehicles; the regiment was bound for the frontier, where England and Russia have latterly been discussing the question of the boundary, and a discussion of this kind is materially assisted by the presence of soldiers. [Illustration: TURCOMAN WOMAN SPINNING.] We will refer to Fred's account of the railway journey in Turkestan. "We were invited to seats in the carriage where the officers were riding. They did everything to make our journey agreeable, and we were indebted to them for a great deal of information about Central Asia. Some of them had been to the British frontier, and one had visited Cabul, Herat, and Candahar. "The route of the railway was partly across the desert, and partly along the valleys of two or three small rivers of no special importance except for their usefulness in supplying water for the line. For a considerable distance the line lies near the Etrek, a river that was of great use to General Skobeleff in his advance upon Geok Tepé. At times it is simply a dry channel, but water can generally be found by digging a few feet in the sand that forms, in the rainy season, the bed of the stream. [Illustration: VILLAGE OF TURCOMAN TENTS.] "The country is a plain, with here and there a few hills not worthy to be called mountains. Sometimes the plain is flat for a long distance, and again it is undulating like the rolling prairies of our Western States. Vegetation is scanty at best, and a large part of the country is absolutely desert. The great need of Central Asia is water. If a million springs could be opened, all giving a copious flow like some of the great springs in our Rocky Mountains, the next ten or twenty years would see a great change in the aspect of Turkestan. "One of the officers told me that the country was of the same general character all the way to the frontier of Afghanistan. 'The railway can be extended without trouble,' said he, 'as far as we wish to carry it. There's not an obstacle at all formidable to railway engineers.' "I asked, with some hesitation, where they wished to carry their railway line. I knew the subject was not disconnected with politics, but the question was innocent enough, and he could answer it as he chose, and probably did. [Illustration: THE NEW RUSSO-AFGHAN FRONTIER.] "'We built the line,' said he, 'first to Kizil Arvat, one hundred and forty-four miles, and then extended it to Askabad, one hundred and ten miles farther. We are now building to Sarakhs, one hundred and eighty-five miles from Askabad, and there we may stop. Perhaps it will be pushed on to Herat, two hundred and two miles from Sarakhs, but it can not be under the present political situation. Afghanistan is under English control. You know the English Government gives the Ameer of that country a large annual payment of money for his friendship; and until we are willing to give a higher bribe he is not likely to permit us to build railways in his territory. "'From Sarakhs our next line will be to Merv, the rich oasis that came under Russian control a few years ago, or possibly Merv may be reached by a branch from Askabad. Perhaps there will one day be a line from Merv to Samarcand and Bokhara, but this is far in the future. From Merv a railway may be run along the valley of the Murghab to Herat; but it is not a direct route, and we are much more likely to reach Herat by way of Sarakhs, along the valley of the Heri-Rud. Whichever way we take, the building of the road would not be at all difficult. The Murghab route has the disadvantage of being longer than that of the Heri-Rud, but its cost per mile would be much less, as the country is smoother. "'I suppose,' he continued, 'that there is a sort of race between England and Russia to get to Herat with a railway. England is building north from India, while we are building south from the Caspian. The terminal points of the two lines are now less than eight hundred miles apart, and it is very evident that the English and Russian locomotives will be whistling in the hearing of each other, and blowing steam in each other's faces, within the next few years.[9] [9] Early in 1886 the Central Asian Railway was completed to Kaakha, a distance of 590 versts (390 miles) from Mikhailovsk. The line was completed to Merv in April, 1886, and the echoes of the Turcoman oasis were awakened by the shriek of the locomotive. At the latest advices work was being pushed between Merv and Chardjuya, on the Oxus, and General Annenkoff had promised to complete the line to the banks of the historic river before the end of the year. The Emir of Bokhara has agreed to provide the material for a bridge across the Oxus, and the Russian engineers have completed the survey of the line as far as Samarcand. It is hoped that the railway will reach Bokhara and Samarcand by the end of 1887. The entire railway as planned will extend from Mikhailovsk, on the Caspian, by way of Kizil Arvat (245 versts), Askabad (445 versts), Kaakha (590 versts), to Merv (770 versts, or 510 miles); thence to Chardjuya, on the Amoo Darya (Oxus), and Bokhara to Samarcand, a total distance of 1065 versts (700 miles), of which no less than five-sevenths is practically now completed. All the rails, sleepers, and rolling material for the Trans-Caspian Railway are supplied from the Russian Crown depots. Apart from this, the total cost of making the line from the Caspian to the Oxus is estimated at 12,250,000 roubles, or about 16,000 roubles per verst. The Russians have a grand scheme for another line of railway through Asia, which was originally proposed by M. de Lesseps. The first step would be to complete the railway connection along the lower Volga, between Tsaritsin and Astrachan. The Asiatic line would start from Astrachan, pass through Khiva, Bokhara, and Samarcand into Chinese Turkestan, where it would touch Tang-Kissar, Kashgar, and Yarkand, in addition to other cities and towns of lesser note. It would skirt the shores of Lake Lob, and after descending the valley of the Kan (Han) terminate at Hankow, on the banks of the Yang-tse-Kiang, six hundred miles above the mouth of the great river of China. "'If we were not confronted by diplomacy we could reach Herat considerably in advance of the English, as we have the shorter and easier line to build to get there. But with our scrupulous regard for treaties and agreements, we may be hindered in our railway building, and have the mortification of seeing our rivals there ahead of us. The English consider Herat the key to India, and are determined that we shall not possess it. We don't care much for it anyway, but are perfectly willing to place it beneath the sheltering wings of the Black Eagle. "'When you are considering Sarakhs,' he continued, 'remember that there are two places of that name. Old Sarakhs is a mass of ruins; only a single building remains, and that is a tomb in which the body of Abel is said to rest. Another tomb a few miles away is known as the tomb of Cain, and there is a tradition that the Garden of Eden was in the neighborhood of Sarakhs. The Russians have occupied Old Sarakhs, and will establish a military post there of considerable importance as soon as the railway is completed. [Illustration: OLD SARAKHS.] "'Old Sarakhs is near the Heri-Rud River, which here forms a dividing line between Persia and the Turcoman country. The Persians have built a town called New Sarakhs on their side of the river, and protected it by a fort; they keep a small garrison there, and as we have no quarrel with Persia, and are not likely to have, it is quite sufficient for all purposes of peace. "'I wish you could go with me through that country and see the effect of the Turcoman raiding system which was continued through generations, and has only recently come to an end. Centuries ago the valleys of the Murghab and Heri-Rud contained a large population, and the same was the case over a wide extent of country. "'Ride where you will, you find the traces of irrigating canals in great number. In the third century this region was said to contain a thousand cities, probably an exaggeration, but indicative of the dense population it sustained, and might still sustain. In many places the valleys of the Murghab and Heri-Rud are several miles in width and perfectly flat. There are ruined canals all over these wide places, showing that they were once cultivated; they might be cultivated again and rendered fertile as of old by the same system that was once in vogue. The country is a desert because it is not tilled, and it is not tilled because it has no inhabitants. Turcoman raids have made the desolation by enslaving, killing, or driving away the people that once lived here. [Illustration: SARIK TURCOMAN WOMAN.] "'Since the raiding ceased the Sarik Turcomans, who were formerly as much addicted to it as any others, have turned their attention to agriculture. They have occupied parts of the Murghab Valley near Pul-i-Khisti and Ak Tapa, where they have cleared out the old irrigation canals, set their ploughs and other implements at work, and seem to be forgetting altogether their former mode of life. They have settled into villages, but live in kibitkas in preference to houses of mud or other solid materials. Considering their recent subjugation, they are quite friendly with the Russians; they know we will never allow them to resume their predatory life, but as long as they behave themselves they will find us to be kind masters, and our military and engineering work in their country will assure them a good market for their surplus produce.' "I asked the gentleman to tell me the difference between Pul-i-Khisti and Pul-i-Khatun, which we had read so much about in the newspapers, at the time of the conflict between the Russians and Afghans. "'Pul-i-Khatun is on the Heri-Rud or Tejend River, a few miles south of Sarakhs. In the Persian language "pul" means bridge, and "khatun" lady, so that Pul-i-Khatun may be translated "Bridge of the Lady." The bridge that bears this name is said to have been erected in the time of Tamerlane, the great conqueror, at the request of one of the ladies of his family. It is of brick, in six arches, and has not been repaired for a long time; the central arch is broken, but the others are in serviceable condition. [Illustration: PUL-I-KHISTI AND AK TAPA.] "'Pul-i-Khisti means "Bridge of Bricks," and is over the Murghab River, where that stream unites with the Kushk. It became famous as the scene of the fight between the Russians and Afghans, in the early part of 1885. Each party throws the blame of the affair upon the other; naturally enough I think the Afghans were at fault, but as I may be prejudiced on the subject it is not worth while to discuss it. Pul-i-Khisti is close to Penjdeh, which is nothing more than a mass of ruins where a town once stood; the Russians may be able to make something out of it, and the next time I go there I shouldn't be surprised to find a strong fort. "'The English wanted to make the boundary so that it would leave Penjdeh in the possession of the Afghans, but we persuaded them that the place would be safer in our hands than theirs. You will find on the map the boundaries as they have been arranged, and as long as England keeps to her agreement there is not likely to be any trouble. Of course we shall faithfully abide by our promises, but one can never tell when the treacherous Afghans will cross the boundaries and make depredations upon our peaceful subjects. Then we will defend our rights; it is for such defence we have built the railway on which you are now travelling, and we shall maintain a good-sized force of troops on or near the frontier. By means of our railways and steamers we can get to the frontier a great deal quicker than England can possibly reach it from her capital; and if she chooses to make war on us she will find us ready. [Illustration: PENJDEH.] "'With the Vladikavkaz Railway finished to Petrovsk on the Caspian, and the Trans-Caspian Railway completed to Sarakhs, we could bring troops from Moscow to the latter point inside of a week. There would only be the crossing of the Caspian, which is little more than a ferry, between Petrovsk and Mikhailovsk, to break the continuous journey by rail. From Sarakhs to Herat, as I before said, is about two hundred miles, which could be covered in two or three weeks by a Russian army. We think we can get to Herat more quickly than England can in case of war, but let us all hope that the necessity for the experiment may never come.'" Fred thought there was a confident smile on the face of the Russian as he pronounced the above words. It was very evident that the Russians in Central Asia had an abiding faith in their ability to take care of themselves in case of a conflict with England. While conversing with another officer, the youths ascertained that he had accompanied the first Russian expedition to the Merv Oasis, or rather the expedition that converted that stronghold of the Turcomans into Russian territory, with the loss of only one man. The gentleman said the Oasis was watered by the Murghab, which practically terminated there; the river was diverted into a great number of little streams, and the country included in these streams formed the Oasis. The Mervis were more peaceable than their fellow Turcomans, but very jealous of strangers, and not willing to admit anybody to their limited territory. They had a fort larger and stronger than the one against which Skobeleff's army was nearly shattered to pieces at Geok Tepé; it was an enclosure with high, thick walls of mud, and large enough to hold the whole population with their flocks and herds. The Oasis is about one hundred and twenty miles from Askabad and ninety from the nearest point on the Tejend; it was formerly incorporated with the surrounding provinces of Turkestan, but for many years has been independent. [Illustration: COLONEL ALIKHANOFF.] "We wanted Merv," said the Russian officer to whom allusion has just been made, "but we didn't want to fight for it; so we resorted to diplomacy, and through the skill of General Komaroff and Colonel Alikhanoff, aided by a few others who were in the secret, we came into peaceful possession of the place. I have no doubt the Mervis are all very glad we are there, now that the thing has been done. "Colonel Alikhanoff went from Askabad to Merv in company with a Russian merchant who had a dozen camels laden with goods. They remained there a fortnight, and then returned safely, accompanied by several delegates from the Mervis who wished to consult with the Russian commander at Askabad about some camels that had been stolen from them by the Persians. The delegates were kindly received, and went home with a favorable report which ultimately led to the occupation of Merv by a small force of Russian cavalry and infantry. A fort was built, and a bazaar opened for the exchange of Russian goods for the products of the Oasis, and ever since then the Russians and Mervis have been on terms of friendship. Of course there were some of the Mervis who opposed the advent of our soldiers, but they are now our earnest advocates, and would be the last to ask us to leave. [Illustration: THE GREAT HIGHWAY OF CENTRAL ASIA.] "Merv is about two hundred and forty miles from Herat, and if we should ever be obliged to march against that Afghan stronghold, the Oasis will be an excellent point to start from after accumulating the necessary stores and material of war. It promises to be a good centre of trade, and its importance was easy to comprehend when the English Government made such a fuss as it did about our taking it. "Before we were established there," continued the officer, "an English newspaper correspondent, Edmund O'Donovan, went to Merv by way of Persia, and lived in the Oasis for five months. At first the people treated him coldly, but he gradually won their confidence and convinced them of his friendliness. They made him one of their elders, and appointed him to a place on the Governing Council; he has told the story of his residence among these strange people in an interesting volume entitled 'The Merv Oasis.' "One of the most remarkable journeys ever made on the Turcoman steppes," said the gentleman in conclusion, "was accomplished by another newspaper correspondent, an American named MacGahan, during the campaign against Khiva in 1873. Without an escort, and accompanied only by a servant and two guides, he started from Fort Peroffsky, on the Jaxartes or Syr Darya River, near the Aral Sea, to overtake General Kaufmann's army, that had gone to the attack of Khiva. Its exact whereabouts were unknown; he had eight or ten days of desert travel before him, and if he had fallen into the hands of the Turcomans or Kirghese who roam over the desert, his fate would have been certain death. "The Russians at Fort Peroffsky refused to allow him to start, as they considered it impossible for him to make the journey, and he was obliged to slip out of the place in the night. He had several narrow escapes, but managed to get through all right and join General Kaufmann's column just as the fighting before Khiva began. The officers told him the chances of his getting across the desert with his life were not more than one in a hundred. He remained with our army till the end of the Khivan campaign, and every officer who knew him felt that he had lost a personal friend when the news of MacGahan's death came a few years later. The story of his adventures is told in his book--'Campaigning on the Oxus and the Fall of Khiva.' "In 1875 a similar journey was made by Captain Burnaby, an English officer of the Guards. He has given an admirable account of his experience in a book entitled, 'A Ride to Khiva.'" "Conversation such as this," writes Fred in his journal, "beguiled the tediousness of the ride over the flat and desolate region through which the railway passes. At the few oases where we stopped, we saw little villages of Turcomans, but they were so much alike that the descriptions you have already read will answer for them all. At Kizil Arvat we found an oasis containing altogether half a dozen square miles of tillable land, on which were several Turcoman villages, and a Russian town of perhaps a thousand inhabitants. "We call the town Russian from the flag that waves over it, rather than from the nationality of those who live in it. They are Russians, Turcomans, Kirghese, Persians, Armenians, and Jews, and I don't know how many other races and kinds of people. There is a good deal of commerce, mostly in the hands of Armenians and Russians, but much less than when the railway terminated here. The business of Merv and the Penjdeh district is at the end of the railway; in this respect the commerce of Central Asia is much like that of our far-western country, and changes its base with each change of the means of transport. [Illustration: TURCOMAN FARM-YARD.] "There is a fort at Kizil Arvat, and also a bazaar, and we are told that Askabad is similarly provided. Whenever the Russians establish themselves in any part of Turkestan, they build a fort and a bazaar side by side. Hardly has the army pitched its tents before the shops are opened and the natives are invited to come in and trade. All who come are kindly treated; in a little time whatever hesitation the natives may have possessed is gone, and the cheapness of the goods on sale converts the former enemies into friends. There is no doubt that Russia thoroughly understands the Asiatic nature, and deals with it accordingly. [Illustration: MAP OF TURKESTAN, SHOWING ROUTE OF THE TRANS-CASPIAN RAILWAY.] "Most of our return journey to Mikhailovsk was made in the night, which we did not specially regret, where so much of the route was through the uninteresting desert. We were told that when the railway was started, it was intended to make a narrow-gauge line that would be taken up as soon as the capture of Geok Tepé had been accomplished. But the undertaking had not gone far before the plans were changed and a well-built railway, on the standard gauge of Russia, was the result. The line is well equipped with cars, and at no distant day will form a link in the overland route from England to India. "When the Russian and Indian lines form a connection near Herat or Candahar, the Vladikavkaz Railway will be completed to Petrovsk, on the Caspian. The traveller may then go from London to Bombay or Calcutta in nine or ten days. His entire journey will be made by rail, with the exception of the passages of the English channel and the Caspian Sea, the former requiring two hours, and the latter an entire day. Russia is already talking of an extension of the line from Tsaritsin, along the lower Volga and around the northern end of the Caspian to a connection with the Trans-Caspian Railway. Should this line be made, the journey to India would be wholly a land route, with the exception of 'The Silver Streak,' between Dover and Calais." While our friends are musing on the possibilities of the railway to India, and its benefits to commerce and civilization, they have recrossed the Caspian and are once more in the Petrolia of Europe. And now behold them seated in a train of the Trans-Caucasian Railway for a ride to Tiflis and the Black Sea. A letter in the _New York Herald_ of April 19, 1886, says: "The Russians have established a military and naval station at Novi Golfe, on the Caspian, twenty-two versts north-west of Mikhailovsk, and connected it with the latter point by railway. In case of war with England, the Russians are prepared to strike heavy blows in Asia. They have two army corps in the Caucasus, and another in Turkestan ready for service on their south-eastern frontier. The vessels of the Kavkas and Mercury Steamship Company, Noble's naphtha fleet, and the Greek and Armenian vessels on the Caspian (which all fly the Russian flag), would be immediately pressed into the service. The Russians believe that, barring bad weather, they could, with these steamers and a number of sailing-vessels in tow, transport sixty thousand men across the Caspian from Astrachan, Baku, and Petrovsk to Novi Golfe and Mikhailovsk in three days. [Illustration: CROSSING A RIVER IN CENTRAL ASIA.] "The Russians would thus dispose of about one hundred and fifteen thousand men--Army of the Caucasus, sixty thousand; Turkestan, thirty thousand; and fifteen thousand Turcoman auxiliaries. These latter will supply the advance of the Russian columns heading southward from Askabad and Merv. "The Russians have shown great tact and cleverness in the management of their Turcoman subjects. There is at Merv a skeleton army, or _cadre_, of three hundred Turcomans, under the command of a Cossack officer named Kalotine. Of the three hundred, one hundred are from Merv, one hundred are Tekkes, and the remainder from other tribes. These men (irregular horse) remain in the service six months. During that time they are paid twenty-five roubles a month, and at its expiration are discharged with the rank of sergeant, but remain liable to military duty in time of war. This plan was adopted to secure good native non-commissioned officers for the fifteen regiments of irregular cavalry. The son of the last Khan of Merv is now a Russian sergeant. Ten native Turcomans hold the rank of captain in the Russian army, and four that of lieutenant, besides which many decorations have been given to those who took part in Alikhanoff's foray. "The construction of the railway between Askabad and Merv presented great difficulties, on account of the absence of water in many places. To overcome this, artesian wells were dug. The width and current of the Tegend-Bud necessitated an iron bridge at Kara-Bend. The Trans-Caspian Railway is built upon the model of the Trans-Caucasian one, the stations on both being near together, solidly built and comfortable. There are sixteen stations between Mikhailovsk and Askabad (four hundred and twenty-two versts). _Mikhailovsk to_ Mallakara 22 Versts. Bala Ischen 35 " Aidin 29 " Paraval 15 " Atchai-Komm 16 " Kasandjik 31 " Ossausan 16 " Ouchak 23 " Kizil-Arvat 30 " Koteh 28 " Barni 24 " Arolman 30 " Baharden 30 " Keli-Atta 27 " Geok-Tepé 25 " Besmeni 21 " Askabad 20 " [Illustration: A NATIVE TRAVELLER.] CHAPTER XXIII. BAKU TO TIFLIS.--THE CAPITAL OF THE CAUCASUS.--MOUNTAIN TRAVELLING.--CROSSING THE RANGE.--PETROLEUM LOCOMOTIVES.--BATOUM AND ITS IMPORTANCE.--TREBIZOND AND ERZEROOM.--SEBASTOPOL AND THE CRIMEA.--SHORT HISTORY OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.--RUSSO-TURKISH WAR OF 1877-78.--BATTLES IN THE CRIMEA AND SIEGE OF SEBASTOPOL.--VISITING THE MALAKOFF AND REDAN FORTS.--VIEW OF THE BATTLE-FIELDS.--CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA.--PRESENT CONDITION OF SEBASTOPOL.--ODESSA.--ARRIVAL AT CONSTANTINOPLE.--FRANK'S DREAM.--THE END. For fifty miles after leaving Baku the railway follows the coast of the Caspian Sea until it reaches Alayat, where the Government is establishing a port that promises to be of considerable importance at no distant day. The country is a desert dotted with salt lakes, and here and there a black patch indicating a petroleum spring. The only vegetation is the camel-thorn bush, and much of the ground is so sterile that not even this hardy plant can grow. Very little rain falls here, and sometimes there is not a drop of it for several months together. At Alayat the railway turns inland, traversing a desert region where there are abundant indications of petroleum; in fact all the way from Baku to Alayat petroleum could be had for the boring, and at the latter place several wells have been successfully opened, though the low price of the oil stands in the way of their profitable development. After leaving the desert, a region of considerable fertility is reached. The streams flowing down from the mountains are utilized for purposes of irrigation, but very rudely; under a careful system of cultivation the valley of the Kura River, which the railway follows to Tiflis, could support a large population. From Baku to Tiflis by railway is a distance of three hundred and forty-one miles, and the line is said to have cost, including rolling stock, about fifty thousand dollars a mile. In the work on the desert portion many of the laborers died from the effects of the extreme dryness of the atmosphere. The whole distance from Baku to Batoum, on the Black Sea, is five hundred and sixty-one miles. [Illustration: LOOKING DOWN ON THE STEPPE.] Tiflis is thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea, and the point where the railway reaches its greatest elevation is eighteen hundred feet higher, or thirty-two hundred feet in all. The grades are very steep; there is one stretch of eight miles where it is two hundred and forty feet to the mile, and for a considerable distance it exceeds one hundred feet to the mile. It is proposed to overcome the steepest grade by a long tunnel which would reduce the highest elevation to little more than two thousand feet. Our friends reached Tiflis in the evening, after an interesting ride, in spite of the monotony of the desert portion of the route. Frank will tell us the story of their visit to the famous city of the Caucasus. "We were somewhat disappointed," said he, "with our first view of Tiflis. We had an impression that it was in the centre of a fertile plain surrounded by mountains; actually the ground on which it stands is not fertile, and the surroundings consist of brown hills instead of mountains. The sides of the hills are barren, and there would hardly be a shrub or tree in the city were it not for the system of irrigation which is maintained. The prettiest part of the city is the quarter occupied by the Germans, where there are rows and groups of trees and a great many luxuriant gardens. The Germans are descended from some who came here in the last century to escape religious persecution. Though born in Tiflis and citizens of Russia, in every sense they preserve their language and customs, and do not mingle freely with their Muscovite neighbors. "There are about one hundred and ten thousand inhabitants in Tiflis; nearly one-third are Russians, rather more than a third Armenians, twenty-three thousand Georgians, and the rest are Germans, Persians, and mixed races in general. Most of the business is in the hands of the Armenians, and many of them are wealthy; nearly all speak Russian, and mingle with the Russians more harmoniously than do any of the others. The Persians live in a quarter by themselves, and it is by no means the cleanest part of the city. The Georgians preserve their dress and language, and, though entirely peaceful, are said to maintain the same hatred to Russia as when fighting to preserve their independence. "Many of the officials in the Caucasus are Armenians, and some of the ablest generals of the Russian army belong to the same race. Gen. Loris Melikoff is an Armenian, and so are Generals Lazareff and Tergoukasoff, as well as others of less importance. The Armenians have four newspapers at Tiflis, and four monthly reviews. There are nearly a million of these people in Russia and the Caucasus, and their treatment is in marked contrast to that of the eight hundred thousand Armenian subjects of Turkey who have been most cruelly oppressed by the Sultan and his officers. "We had read of the beauty of the Georgians, who used to sell their daughters to be the wives of the Turks, and naturally looked around us for handsome faces. We saw them among the men as well as among the women; and we saw more handsome men than women, perhaps for the reason that men were much more numerous. The Georgians are a fine race of people, and so are all the natives of the Caucasus. The mountain air all the world over has a reputation for developing strength and intelligence among those who breathe it. "Since the occupation of Georgia and the other parts of the Caucasus by Russia, the people are no longer sold as slaves for Turkish masters. Whatever may be the faults of the Russian rule, it is certainly far in advance of that of Turkey. [Illustration: VIEW OF TIFLIS.] "Tiflis may be said to be in two parts, the old and the new. The former is on the bank of the river, and its streets are narrow and dirty; the new part is on higher ground, and has been chiefly built by the Russians since they obtained possession of the country. In this part the streets are wide, and lined with many handsome buildings; in the old part there are several Armenian churches and caravansaries, and the greater portion of the commerce is transacted there. "We saw a great many Russian soldiers, and were told that a large garrison is always maintained in Tiflis, which is a central point from which troops can be sent in any direction. The Government offices and the palace of the Governor-general are in the Russian quarter, and of course there are plenty of Russian churches, with their gilded domes sparkling in the sunlight. "We visited one of the churches, and also the Armenian Cathedral; we tried to see the interior of a mosque, but were forbidden admittance except on payment of more money than we chose to give. We drove to the hot baths, which are situated just outside the city; they are largely patronized, and have an excellent reputation for the relief of gout, rheumatism, and similar troubles. There are many hot springs in the neighborhood of Tiflis that have been flowing for centuries, without any change in temperature or volume. "We wanted to go overland to Vladikavkaz, for the sake of the journey among the Caucasus, but our plans were otherwise, and we continued by railway to Batoum. The mountains of this range are as picturesque as any we have ever seen. The passes are like those of the Alps or the Sierra Nevadas, and as we wound along the line of railway to the crest of the divide, every moment revealed a new and splendid picture. We had distant views of Elburz and Ararat, two of the most famous mountains of this region, and greatly regretted our inability to visit the latter, which is revered as the resting-place of Noah's Ark. Mount Ararat has been ascended by several travellers; they describe the journey as very fatiguing, but were amply repaid by the magnificent view from the summit. "We left Tiflis dry and dusty, and the dry air remained with us till we crossed the ridge and began our descent. Then we entered the clouds, and as we passed below their level found ourselves in a pouring rain. The western slope of the Caucasus is a rainy region, while the eastern is dry. Baku has too little rain, and Batoum too much; the western slope is luxuriant, while the eastern is an arid desert, and the fertility of the former continues down to the shore of the Black Sea. [Illustration: THE PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS.] "Grapes and melons were offered at every station, at prices that were a marvel of cheapness. Two cents would buy a large melon, and the same money was gladly accepted for a bunch of grapes which would furnish a dinner for a very hungry man. A great deal of wine is raised in this region; three hundred thousand acres are said to be devoted to the culture of the grape in the Caucasus, and about forty million gallons of wine are made annually. Wine is plenty and cheap; the Russians refuse to drink the wine of the Caucasus, just as Californians affect to despise that of their own State. We are told that a large part of the so-called foreign wine sold in Tiflis and other cities of the Caucasus is really the product of the country under fictitious labels. [Illustration: GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF THE CAUCASUS.] "We have already mentioned the use of petroleum in the locomotives of the Trans-Caucasian Railway. Where we stopped for fuel and water the petroleum-tank was side by side with the water-tank, and there was no sign of wood-yard or coal-heap. A few minutes charged the tender with petroleum and water, in separate compartments, and then we moved on, just as on any other railway line. "It is delightful riding behind a petroleum locomotive, as there are neither cinders nor smoke. After the fire is started the furnace door is not opened; the fireman regards the flame through a hole about two inches square, and regulates it just as may be desired. They told us that steam could be more evenly maintained than with coal or wood; there was no excess of steam while waiting at stations, and consequently no necessity for 'blowing off.' Wonder what railway in America will be the first to adopt the new fuel? "The Trans-Caucasian Railway was begun in 1871; its starting-point was at Poti, which has a poor harbor and stands in marshy ground, so that fevers and malaria are altogether too common. In 1878 Russia came into possession of Batoum, which has a good harbor, and immediately a branch line sixty miles long was built from that city to connect with the railway. Now nearly all the business has gone to Batoum. Poti is decaying very rapidly, but for military reasons it is not likely to be abandoned. "By the treaty of Berlin Batoum was made a free port, and the Russians were forbidden to fortify it; but they have kept the Turkish fortifications, and not only kept them uninjured, but have repaired them whenever there were signs of decay. On this subject the following story is told: "The casemated fortress which commands the port required to be strengthened in certain points, and the contractors were asked for estimates for the work. One man presented an estimate which he headed 'Repairs to Fortifications.' The general commanding the district immediately sent for the contractor, and said to him, "'There are no fortifications in Batoum; they are forbidden by the treaty of Berlin. Your estimates must be for "garrison-barrack repairs." Remember this in all your dealings with the Government.' [Illustration: RUINED FORTRESS IN THE CAUCASUS.] "We were only a few hours in Batoum, as we embraced the opportunity to embark on one of the Russian Company's steamers for Sebastopol and Odessa. Batoum is growing very rapidly, and promises to be a place of great importance in a very few years. The old town of the Turks has given place to a new one; the Russians have destroyed nearly all the rickety old buildings, laid out whole streets and avenues of modern ones, extended the piers running into the sea, drained the marshes that formerly made the place unhealthy, and in other ways have displayed their enterprise. We were told that there is a great deal of smuggling carried on here, but probably no more than at Gibraltar, Hong-Kong, and other free ports in other parts of the world. [Illustration: RUINED CHURCH NEAR BATOUM.] "And now behold us embarked on a comfortable steamer, and bidding farewell to the Caucasus. Our steamer belongs to the Russian Company of Navigation and Commerce, which has its headquarters at Odessa; it sends its ships not only to the ports of the Black Sea, but to the Levantine coast of the Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal to India, and through the Strait of Gibraltar to England. A line to New York and another to China and Japan are under consideration; it is probable that the latter will be established before the Trans-Atlantic one. The company owns more than a hundred steamers, and is heavily subsidized by the Russian Government." The first stop of the steamer was made at Trebizond, the most important port of Turkey, on the southern coast of the Black Sea. It has a population of about fifty thousand, and carries on an extensive commerce with Persia and the interior of Asiatic Turkey. Latterly its commerce has suffered somewhat by the opening of the Caspian route from Russia to Persia, but it is still very large. Frank and Fred had two or three hours on shore at Trebizond, which enabled them to look at the walls and gardens of this very ancient city. Frank recorded in his note-book that Trebizond was the ancient Trapezius, and that it was a flourishing city at the time of Xenophon's famous retreat, which every college boy has read about in the "Anabasis." It was captured by the Romans when they defeated Mithridates. The Emperor Trajan tried to improve the port by building a mole, and made the city the capital of Cappadocian Pontus. [Illustration: QUARANTINE HARBOR, TREBIZOND.] The Trebizond of to-day consists of the old and new town, the former surrounded by walls enclosing the citadel, and the latter without walls and extending back over the hills. It has two harbors, both of them unsafe at certain seasons of the year. A few millions of the many that Turkey has spent in the purchase of cannon and iron-clad ships of war would make the port of Trebizond one of the best on the coast of the Black Sea. Great numbers of camels, pack-horses, and oxen were receiving or discharging their loads at the warehouses near the water-front. Fred ascertained on inquiry that there were no wagon-roads to Persia or the interior of Asiatic Turkey, but that all merchandise was carried on the backs of animals. One authority says sixty thousand pack-horses, two thousand camels, three thousand oxen, and six thousand donkeys are employed in the Persian trade, and the value of the commerce exceeds seven million dollars per annum. [Illustration: VIEW OF ERZEROOM.] "We are only a hundred and ten miles from Erzeroom," said Fred, "the city of Turkish Armenia, which is well worth seeing. Wouldn't it be fun to go there and have a look at a place that stands more than a mile in the air?" "Is that really so?" Frank asked; "more than a mile in the air?" "Yes," replied his cousin, "Erzeroom is six thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea, and two hundred feet higher than the plain which surrounds it. It had a hundred thousand inhabitants at the beginning of this century, but now has about a third of that number, owing to the emigration of the Armenians after the war between Turkey and Russia in 1829. It is frightfully cold in winter and terribly hot in summer, but for all that the climate is healthy." "How long will it take us to get there?" "About fifty hours," was the reply. "We must go on horseback, but can return in forty hours, as the road descends a great part of the way from Erzeroom to Trebizond. Isn't it strange that with such an immense trade as there is between that place and this--for the road to Persia passes through Erzeroom--the Turks have been content with a bridle-path instead of a wagon-road, or, better still, a railway. Besides--" Further discussion of the road to Erzeroom and the possibilities of travelling it were cut short by the announcement that it was time to return to the steamer. An hour later our friends saw the coast of Asiatic Turkey fading in the distance, as the steamer headed for Southern Russia. Her course was laid for Sebastopol, the city which is famous for the long siege it sustained during the Crimean war, and for possessing the finest natural harbor on the Black Sea. Doctor Bronson suggested that the youths should dispose of the time of the voyage by reading up the history of that celebrated war, and particularly of the siege and capture of Sebastopol. The weather was fine enough to tempt them to idleness, but Frank and Fred had a rule that when they had anything to do they would do it. Accordingly they busied themselves with the books at their command, and made the following condensed account of the contest of Russia with the nations of Western Europe: "The Crimea was conquered by Russia in the time of Catherine the Great, and immediately after the conquest the Russians began to fortify the harbor of Sebastopol (Sacred City). When they went there they found only a miserable Tartar village called Akhtiar; they created one of the finest naval and military ports in the world, and built a city with broad streets and handsome quays and docks. In 1850 it had a population of about fifty thousand, which included many soldiers and marines, together with workmen employed in the Government establishments. "In 1850 there was a dispute between France and Russia relative to the custody of the holy places in Palestine; there had been a contention concerning this matter for several centuries, in which sometimes the Greek Church and sometimes the Latin had the advantage. In 1850, at the suggestion of Turkey, a mixed commission was appointed to consider the dispute and decide upon it. "The Porte, as the Turkish Government is officially designated, issued in March, 1852, a decree that the Greek Church should be confirmed in the rights it formerly held, and that the Latins could not claim exclusive possession of any of the holy places. It allowed them to have a key to the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, and to certain other buildings of minor importance. [Illustration: TURKISH AUTHORITY.] "If you want to know how the Christian churches are now quarrelling about the sacred places in the East, read Chapters XXII., XXIII., and XXIV. of 'The Boy Travellers in Egypt and the Holy Land.' "France accepted the decision, though she did not like it; Russia continued to demand that the Latin monks should be deprived of their keys, and finally insisted that the Czar should have a protectorate over the Greek Christians in Turkey. The Porte said such a protectorate would interfere with its own authority, and refused the demand; thereupon the Russian Minister left Constantinople on the 21st of May, 1853. "This may be considered the beginning of the war between Russia and Turkey, though there was no fighting for several months. "France came to the aid of Turkey; England came to the aid of Turkey and France. Representatives of England, France, Austria, and Prussia met at Vienna and agreed upon a note which Russia accepted; Turkey demanded modifications which Russia refused; Turkey declared war against Russia on the 5th of October, and Russia declared war against Turkey on the 1st of November. "A Turkish fleet of twelve ships was lying at Sinope, a port on the southern shore of the Black Sea. On the 30th of November the Russians sent a fleet of eleven ships from Sebastopol which destroyed the Turkish fleet, all except one ship that carried the news to Constantinople. Then the allied fleets of the French and English entered the Black Sea, and the war began in dead earnest. For some months it was confined to the Danubian principalities and to the Baltic Sea; on the 14th of September, 1854, the allied army landed at Eupatoria, in the Crimea, and the extent of their preparations will be understood when it is known that forty thousand men, with a large number of horses and a full equipment of artillery, were put on shore in a single day! "On the 20th of September the battle of the Alma was fought by fifty-seven thousand English, French, and Turkish troops, against fifty thousand Russians. The battle began at noon, and four hours later the Russians were defeated and in full retreat. The Russians lost five thousand men, and the Allies about three thousand four hundred; the Allies might have marched into Sebastopol with very little resistance, but their commanders were uncertain as to the number of troops defending the city, and hesitated to make the attempt. "On the 17th of October the siege began. A grand attack was made by the Allies, but was unsuccessful, and eight days later the famous charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava was made. On the 5th of November the Russians attacked the Allies at Inkermann, and were repulsed. The battle of Inkermann was fought in a fog by forty thousand Russians against fifteen thousand French and English. The latter had the advantage of position and weapons; the Allies frankly credited the Russian troops with the greatest bravery in returning repeatedly to the attack as their battalions were mowed down by the steady fire of the defenders. "During the winter the siege was pushed, and the allied army suffered greatly from cholera, cold, and sickness. The siege continued during spring and summer; the Allies made an unsuccessful attack on the Malakoff and Redan forts on the 18th of June, 1855, and all through the long months there were daily conflicts between the opposing armies. "The Russians sunk several ships of their fleet in the harbor of Sebastopol soon after the battle of the Alma, but retained others for possible future use. On the 8th of September the French captured the Malakoff fort, the English at the same time making an unsuccessful attack on the Redan. The Russians evacuated Sebastopol during the night, crossing over to the north side of the harbor, burning or sinking their fleet, and destroying their military stores. "This gave the Allies the possession of the city, and though the two armies confronted each other for some time, there was never any serious fighting after that. Other warlike operations were conducted along the Russian shores of the Black Sea. Proposals of peace were made by Austria with the consent of the Allies, and finally, on the 30th of March, 1856, the treaty of peace was signed at Paris. The Allies had begun the destruction of the docks at Sebastopol, but so extensive were those works that with all the engineering skill at their command they were not through with it until July 9th, when they evacuated the Crimea." "Will that do for a condensed history of the Crimean War?" said Frank, as the result of their labors was submitted to the Doctor. "It will do very well," was the reply. "Perhaps some of your school-mates who are not fond of history may be inclined to skip, but I think the majority of readers will thank you for giving it." "Perhaps they would like a few words on the war between Turkey and Russia in 1877-78," said Fred. "If you think so we will give it." Doctor Bronson approved the suggestion, and an hour or two later Fred submitted the following: "In 1875 and '76 there were disturbances in Constantinople and in several provinces of European Turkey. The Sultan of Turkey was deposed, and either committed suicide or was murdered. There were revolts in Herzegovina and Bulgaria, and the troops sent to suppress these revolts committed many outrages. Servia and Montenegro made war upon Turkey on behalf of the Christian subjects of the Porte; Russia came to the support of Servia and Montenegro. There was a vast deal of diplomacy, in which all the great powers joined, and on several occasions it looked as though half of Europe would be involved in the difficulty. [Illustration: VIEW OF SEBASTOPOL.] "Turkey and Servia made peace on March 1, 1877. The principal nations of Europe held a conference, and made proposals for reforms in Turkey which the Porte rejected. Russia declared war against Turkey April 24, 1877, and immediately entered the Turkish dominions in Roumania and Armenia. [Illustration: RUINS OF THE MALAKOFF, SEBASTOPOL.] "The war lasted until March 3, 1878, when a treaty of peace was made at San Stefano, near Constantinople. Many battles were fought during the war, and the losses were heavy on both sides; the severest battles were those of the Shipka Pass and of Plevna. The fortune of war fluctuated, but on the whole the successes were on the side of Russia, and her armies finally stood ready to enter Constantinople. Her losses were said to have been fully one hundred thousand men, and the cost of the war was six hundred million dollars. "After the war came the Berlin Conference of 1878, which gave independence to some of the countries formerly controlled by Turkey, made new conditions for the government of others, regulated the boundaries between Russia and Turkey, giving the former several ports and districts of importance, and required the Porte to guarantee certain rights and privileges to her Christian subjects. England interfered, as she generally does, to prevent Russia from reaping the full advantages she expected from the war, and altogether the enterprise was a very costly one for the government of the Czar." "A very good summary of the war," said the Doctor. "You have disposed of an important phase of the 'Eastern Question' with a brevity that some of the diplomatic writers would do well to study. You might add that for two centuries Russia has had her eye on Constantinople, and is determined to possess it; England is equally determined that Russia shall not have her way, and the other powers are more in accord with England than with Russia." The steamer entered the harbor of Sebastopol, and made fast to the dock. Frank and Fred observed that the port was admirably defended by forts at the entrance. Doctor Bronson told them the forts which stood there in 1854 were destroyed by the Allies after the capture of the city, but they have since been rebuilt and made stronger than ever before. As they neared the forts that guard the entrance of the harbor, a Russian officer who was familiar with the locality pointed out several objects of interest. "On the left," said he, "that pyramid on the low hill indicates the battle-field of Inkermann; still farther on the left is the valley of the Alma; those white dots near the Inkermann pyramid mark the site of the British cemetery, and close by it is the French one. In front of you and beyond the harbor is the mound of the Malakoff, and beyond it are the Redan and the Mamelon Vert. Those heaps of ruins are the walls of the Marine Barracks and Arsenal; they are rapidly disappearing in the restoration that has been going on since 1871, and in a few years we hope to have them entirely removed." There was quite a crowd at the landing-place, variously composed of officers, soldiers, and mujiks; the former for duty or curiosity, and the mujiks scenting a possible job. Our friends proceeded directly to the hotel, which was only two or three hundred yards from the landing-place. As soon as they had selected their rooms and arranged the terms for their accommodation, Dr. Bronson told the proprietor that they wished a carriage and a guide as soon as possible. A messenger was despatched at once for the carriage, while the guide was summoned from another part of the house. "I suppose you will go first to the cemetery," said the host of the establishment. "We don't care for the cemetery," said the Doctor, "until we have seen everything else. If there is any time remaining, we may have a look at it." "Then you are Americans," exclaimed the landlord. "All Englishmen coming here want to go first to the cemetery as they have friends buried there, but Americans never care for it." Doctor Bronson smiled at this mode of ascertaining the nationality of English-speaking visitors, and said it had been remarked by previous visitors to Sebastopol. [Illustration: RUSSIAN CARPENTERS AT WORK.] When the guide and carriage were ready, the party started on its round of visits. From the bluff they looked down upon the harbor, which was lined with workshops and bordered in places by a railway track, arranged so that ships were laden directly from the trains, and trains from the ships. The railway connects with the entire system of the Empire. Doctor Bronson said that if it had existed at the time of the war, the capture of Sebastopol would have been out of the question. Russia had then only a primitive means of communication by wagon-road; she had an abundance of men and war material, but no adequate mode of transportation. The Crimean war taught her the necessity of railways, and she has since acted upon the lesson for which she paid such a high price. [Illustration: COSSACKS AND CHASSEURS.] Frank and Fred climbed quickly to the top of the Malakoff, and the Doctor followed demurely behind them. The lines which marked the saps and mines of the Allies have been nearly all filled up, and the traces of the war are being obliterated. From the top of the casemate the guide pointed out many places of interest. With considerable animation he told how for twenty years after the war the ruins of the city remained pretty nearly as they were when the Allies evacuated the Crimea; whole squares of what had once been fine buildings were nothing but heaps of stones. But now Sebastopol is being restored to her former beauty, and every year large areas of the ruins are making way for new structures. "Sebastopol will be a greater city than it ever was before," said Doctor Bronson, as they stood on the Malakoff. "It was a naval port before, and not a commercial one; now it is both naval and commercial, and by glancing at the map of the Black Sea you can perceive the advantages of its position." Then the guide pointed out the new dock-yards and barracks, the warehouses and docks of "The Russian Company of Navigation and Commerce," the railway-station close to the shore of the harbor, and the blocks of new buildings which were under construction. Then he showed the positions of Inkermann, the Tchernaya, and the Redan, and indicated the lines of the French and English attack. When the scene had been sufficiently studied, the party returned to the carriage and continued their ride. The driver was instructed to go to Balaklava, stopping on the way to show them the spot which history has made famous for the charge of the Light Brigade. As they passed along the level plateau or plain of Sebastopol, they saw everywhere traces of the camps of the armies that besieged the city. The guide showed the route of the railway which connected the harbor of Balaklava with the camp, the wagon-roads built by the Allies, the redoubts that served as defences against attacks in the rear, and the ridges of earth which marked the positions of the huts where officers and soldiers had their quarters during the terrible winter of 1854-55. Naturally the conversation turned upon the charge of the Light Brigade. One of the youths asked the Doctor what he thought of it. "There has been a great deal of controversy about the matter," was the reply. "It is difficult to arrive at the exact facts, as Captain Nolan, who brought the order for the cavalry to advance, was killed in the charge. Comparing the statements of all concerned in issuing, receiving, and executing the order, it is evident that the order was 'blundered' somewhere. This was the understanding immediately after the controversy; Tennyson's poem on the affair originally contained the following: "'Then up came an order Which some one had blundered.' Afterwards these lines were stricken out, and do not appear in the poem as printed in the editions of Tennyson's works. [Illustration: BRITISH SOLDIERS IN CAMP.] "The commander of the French army justly remarked of this charge, _'C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre_' ("It is magnificent, but it is not war"). Twelve thousand Russians had attacked the English with the intention of taking Balaklava and its port, but they were compelled to retire to the end of the valley. They had re-formed, with their artillery in front, and infantry and cavalry immediately behind. By the misunderstanding of the order of Lord Raglan, the British commander-in-chief, Lord Lucan, who commanded the cavalry division, ordered Lord Cardigan to charge with his light cavalry. "In other words the light cavalry, six hundred and seventy strong, were to attack twelve thousand Russians with thirty cannon on their front. The charge was over a plain a mile and a half long, and the Russians had a battery of field artillery on each side of the valley within supporting distance of that at the end. Consequently there is an excellent description of the scene in Tennyson's lines, "'Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thunder'd.' "The charge was made very reluctantly by Lord Cardigan, as you may well believe, but he had no alternative other than to obey the order of his superior. There was never a more brilliant charge. The column advanced at a trot for the first half of the distance, and afterwards at a gallop; the Russian cannon made huge gaps in the ranks, but they were closed up, and on and on swept the heroes, up to and beyond the Russian cannon-- "'Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred.' [Illustration: ALFRED TENNYSON.] "According to one authority, out of six hundred and seventy British horsemen that went to the charge, only one hundred and ninety-eight returned. Another authority gives the total loss in killed, wounded, and captured as four hundred and twenty-six. Five hundred and twenty horses were lost in the charge." "Here is Balaklava," said the guide, as the carriage stopped at a turn in the road overlooking the valley. Our friends stepped from the vehicle and sat down upon a little mound of earth, where they tried to picture the scene of the dreadful October day of 1854. Of the actors and spectators of that event very few are now alive. The Doctor completed the recitation of the poem, and his youthful listeners felt down to the depths of their hearts the full force of the closing lines: "Honor the brave and bold, Long shall the tale be told, Yea, when our babes are old, How they rode onward. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade! Noble six hundred!" From the battle-field the party went to the village of Balaklava and hired a row-boat, in which they paddled about the little, landlocked harbor, and out through its entrance till they danced on the blue waters of the Euxine Sea. Frank and Fred could hardly believe that the narrow basin once contained a hundred and fifty English and French ships; it seemed that there was hardly room for a third of that number. [Illustration: A BROKEN TARANTASSE.] On their return journey they passed a party with a broken tarantasse. They stopped a moment and offered any assistance in their power, but finding they could be of no use they did not tarry long. When they reached Sebastopol the sun had gone down in the west, and the stars twinkled in the clear sky that domed the Crimea. The next morning they rambled about the harbor and docks of the city, and a little past noon were steaming away in the direction of Odessa. A day was spent in this prosperous city, which has a population of nearly two hundred thousand, on a spot where at the end of the last century there was only a Tartar village of a dozen houses, and a small fortress of Turkish construction. Odessa has an extensive commerce, and the ships of all nations lie at its wharves. Its greatest export trade is in wheat, which goes to all parts of the Mediterranean, and also to England. The Black Sea wheat formerly found a market in America, but all that has been changed in recent years through the development of the wheat-growing interest in our Western States and on the Pacific Coast.' Immediately on their arrival they sent their passports to receive the proper permission for leaving the country. Everything was arranged in the course of the day, and on the following afternoon they embarked on a steamer that carried them to Constantinople. [Illustration: THE BOSPORUS.] The second morning after leaving Odessa they entered the Bosporus, the strait which separates Europe and Asia, and connects the waters of the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmora and the Mediterranean. As they looked at the beautiful panorama, which shifted its scene with every pulsation of the steamer's engine, Frank said he had had a dream during the night which was so curious that he wanted to tell it. "What was it?" the Doctor asked. "I dreamed," said Frank, "that England and Russia had become friends, and made up their minds to work together for the supremacy of the world. England had supplied the money for completing the railway to India; she had built a tunnel under the British Channel, and it was possible to ride from London to Calcutta or Bombay without changing cars. The Turks had been expelled from Europe; European Turkey was governed by a Russian prince married to an English princess; the principality had its capital at Constantinople, and a guarantee of neutrality like that of Belgium, to which all the great powers had assented. War and commercial ships of all nations could pass the Bosporus and Dardanelles as freely as through the Suez Canal, and the restrictions made by the treaty of Paris were entirely removed. England and Russia had formed an offensive and defensive alliance, and all the rest of the world had been ordered to keep the peace. And they were keeping it, too, as they dreaded the combined power of England's money and Russia's men." "A very pretty fancy!" said the Doctor. "What a pity it was all a dream!" THE END. INTERESTING BOOKS FOR BOYS. * * * * * BOUND VOLUMES OF HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for 1881, 1883, 1884, 1885, and 1886, Handsomely Bound in Illuminated Cloth, $3.50 per vol. _Bound Volumes for 1880 and 1882 are out of stock._ THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE. Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey in European and Asiatic Russia. 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